By any other name
by AlessNox
Summary: When Sherlock said, "If I wasn't everything that you think I am – everything that I think I am – would you still want to help me?" Molly thought she that understood what Sherlock meant. Molly has a very bad day, that will change the rest of her life.
1. Molly's Bad Day

"Over the past five years, sections of over fifty-four bodies have left this hospital without proper authorization and to date fifteen bodies have not been properly accounted for. It was your responsibility to keep track of them. And yet, you have allowed other individuals to remove what should be safely in our care. We are not a loan library, Miss Hooper. It is our responsibility to treat each body that we receive with the utmost respect. Do you understand what it would mean to this Hospital if it became known that we let members of the public walk off with body parts? We depend on donations to provide subjects for dissection for our medical school. Your actions may have adversely affected the reputation of our institution. And it has also come to my attention that you may have been involved in the falsification of a death certificate. I am very disappointed with you, Miss Hooper. A formal reprimand will be placed on your record, and you are suspended of all duties until the audit is complete. That will be all."

Molly left the room without saying a word. There were so many things that she had been meaning to say, but at the time, she couldn't bring herself to say them. The audit was an unexpected thing. She should have made sure that Sherlock returned the body parts that he had borrowed. Or at least she should have fudged the records so it seemed like he had. She had indeed kept careful records of everything that Sherlock had removed, and they had found it when she was away helping take care of John Watson's half-orphaned baby. She walked down to her office, but the warnings and notices on her desk quickly drove her from the place. She picked up her coat, hoping to get a bit of air and passed the lunch room to see Dr. Painford having lunch with that new nurse from Oncology.

Dr. Painford was young with blond hair and a dashing smile. He was very tall and intelligent, and he had asked her out more than once. She had accepted, only to forget about their date when Sherlock had turned up weeks away from dying due to his overindulgence in drugs. Then he had been almost killed by a serial killer, and the subsequent storm of media attention had made it nearly impossible to sneak into the secure hospital where his brother had transferred him after the last one had been proven to have been a killing box that had cost the lives of dozens of adults and children.

His prognosis had been not as severe as she had first thought. His assistant, Bill Wiggins, had indeed been a first rate chemist. The tracer chemicals that he had ingested had made it seem as if his kidneys were failing even though they were not. With some weeks of treatment, he was back to his annoying self again, although much too underweight and with a need for a course of drugs to ease the symptoms of his former addiction.

Sherlock had refused the drugs, as she knew he would, and traded the pains of withdrawal for a vicious tongue that reminded her of how he had been in their first days.

Despite her concern for Sherlock, the baby Rosie was foremost in her thoughts. She had come to love the little child in a way neither of her parents had seemed too. John Watson and she had never been very close before, her being a friend of a friend. But she had become close to Mary Watson before her death. Mary was a strange woman. She was warm and generous on one hand and secretive and sarcastic on the other. She had no fear or superstition about dead bodies, which Molly found odd, but comforting. She also clearly had some issue between herself and Sherlock that they refused to acknowledge. On the surface, they seemed the closest of friends, but there was something in her eyes, and the way that Sherlock refused to turn his back on her. The way that Mary's voice tensed when she mentioned his name.

Molly had planned one day to ask about it, but she never got the chance. She would never forget Mrs Hudson asking her to come by Mary's house at once as she needed to return to Baker Street, and no one else was around to take care of the baby now that Mary was dead.

She was Rosie's godmother. She had agreed to help if anything happened to her parents, but she had never imagined this. She had never imagined rocking a crying baby whose mother would never return. Watching as John became more and more distant from his own child, refusing to touch her and sometimes even to look at her. She had never guessed that she would be the one to tell Sherlock that his best friend would rather be with anyone but him.

She had not been there to witness Mary's death, so she didn't understand how Lestrade could claim that Mary took a bullet to save Sherlock's life when John acted as if Sherlock had shot her himself. He refused to take Sherlock's calls. He even refused to allow her to say his name around Rosie, not that he was around her much these days. Rosie was living with the Browns, a nice young couple that Mary had met in her Lamaze class. Their daughter was born only a week before Rosie, and they had agreed to take her for a while when they heard the shocking news of Mary's car accident. That was the lie that they were told. Mothers of infants were not supposed to be shot.

John rarely visited the child. It was up to Molly to keep an eye on her welfare, going twice a week to check up on her. Saying that her father was thinking of her. Giving excuses for him because he had left her there far longer than he should have. She told the Browns last night that he would come by soon. The lies became less convincing every time she said them.

It was while she was visiting Rosie at the Browns that the inventory had been begun. She had left work early to go to their flat and so she hadn't heard about it until she came into work the next morning. Now she was suspended, and the only man who had shown an interest in her in months seemed to have chucked her over for a younger and prettier woman.

She should have expected it. Birthdays had always gone wrong for her, and today she was thirty. She turned away, and left the building.

As she sat in the tube station watching a mother quiet her wailing baby, she realized what little chance she now had to have her own child. She was getting old. She had thrown away a perfectly good engagement because she couldn't get over what Tom had called her ' _hopeless crush for a man indifferent to her'_. His words still hurt.

When she staggered into her flat, tired and depressed, she was met with another shock. A crowd of residents were gathered around the mailboxes. It was unusual to see so many people in the lobby at one time. She stepped forward and read the message that was posted on the wall. A sheet next to the mailboxes announced that her block of flats were to be closed. The property had been sold, and this building was to be knocked down to make a bank building. All residents were required to vacate within two months!

The others around her wondered how they could find a new flat in central London especially at this time of year. Molly picked up her mail and rode up to her flat sure that after this, things could only get better. She was wrong.

At first she thought that Sherlock Holmes had remembered her birthday, but he was only a few words into the conversation before she realized that the phone call was simply a massive joke. Sherlock Holmes had asked her to say the words, "I love you."

This wasn't the first time that Sherlock had made a mockery of her feelings. She would never forget the Christmas party where he embarrassed her in front of everyone, and the time with her boyfriend, Jim, although that went wrong for completely different reasons.

She could hear the tell-tale humm that suggested that she was on speaker phone. This was a dare. Someone must have told Sherlock that no one could love him, and he had called her up to prove them wrong. She couldn't stand it now, not with everything else. Let him be embarrassed for once.

"You first," she told him.

She almost hung up, but then he said it..."I love you."

He said it, and odd as it was, she actually believed that he meant it.

Whether it was just as a friend or romantically. It didn't matter. She had never thought to hear those words from him at all.

"I love you," she said and hung up the phone.

The words echoed in her head all night. When she woke the next morning, she wondered if it was a dream. Then she remembered that she was losing her flat, she wasn't wanted at work, and she had nowhere else to go. Well, maybe she had a place to go. She went to Baker Street, but when she got to Sherlock's flat, all that she saw was a burnt out shell.


	2. Mrs Hudson's Advice

Mrs Hudson opened the door when she knocked, and let her in. The top of the stairwell was a jumble of chared wood, and the top railing was broken, but the bottom floor seemed fairly intact.

"Why, Mrs Hudson, what happened?"

"Come inside, dear. No use talking on the step." she said leading Molly into her cozy flat. There was a large crack in the ceiling over her head, but other than that, the room seemed undamaged, with floral prints and antemacassars as befitting the home of an elderly landlady. Molly came into the kitchen and sat at the table while Mrs. Hudson turned on the kettle. She busied herself setting out a tea pot and some biscuits before pouring the tea, covering it with the cosy, and sitting down.

"Please forgive me for serving tea in the kitchen dear, rather than the living room, but my hip has been acting up again, and I'm afraid that if I sink down into one of my comfortable chairs, I won't get up again."

"I understand. The hip is one of the most common joints to fail. It and the knee are two of the most common sources of discomfort in elderly, oh...I'm sorry. I shouldn't talk shop."

"Why ever not, dear? I think it is a wonderful thing that girls today can have careers more fulfilling than dancers and secretaries. How has your work been?"

Molly lowered her head. "Not very well. I've been suspended."

"Oh dear. That's too bad. Have a lemon biscuit. It will cheer you right up."

"I think I'll need more than a biscuit to get over things, Mrs Hudson."

"Perhaps so, but it certainly can't hurt. So what brings you here today?"

"Well actually, I came to see Sherlock."

"Sherlock? Oh dear. He and the others ran off days ago and I haven't heard from them since. After the explosion, it was like we were at the center of an ant's nest. Agents everywhere, and such goings on. Then Sherlock gave me a kiss and rushed off with a grin on his face, but his brother didn't seemed very pleased about it. He acted as if he were being sent to apologize to a dragon."

"Really? Do you think they're all right?"

"There is no use worrying about it now. It's out of our hands. But you wouldn't have come by if you hadn't heard something. Did they come by the hospital?"

"No, Sherlock…called me last night."

"What did he say?"

Molly didn't want to repeat the conversation. She covered by taking a bite of her lemon biscuit, which did actually make her feel better. Mrs Hudson seemed to realize her discomfort because she leaned forward and patted her knee.

"There, there, dear. I know Sherlock can be a bit of an ass sometimes. You mustn't take it to heart. There are times when I want to take that boy over my knee and give him a good spanking for all he's done. Just look at my building. This isn't the first time we've had an explosion here, nor the last, I'll warrant you. He's been so much trouble since he came to live here! I just can't tell you how much."

"Why do you tolerate him? Don't you ever want to ask him to leave?"

"Heavens no, dear. What a boring life that would be for me. Besides, he's like the child I never had. I can't tell you how much he reminds me of my dear Frank. That is, except for his heart. Sherlock hasn't a mean bone in his body, and he has the purest heart I've ever seen. But you would know all about that, wouldn't you, Molly?"

Molly remembered Sherlock on the phone saying, 'I love you,' and her voice wavered. "Why would you say that, Mrs Hudson? Why would you think I'd know anything about his heart?"

"Why, because you love him, dear. You can't hide your heart from the ones who love you."

"But I never said I..."

"Oh no need to deny it. It was obvious from the day of the Christmas party."

"I didn't, I just..."

Mrs Hudson lay a hand on Molly's arm. "People are so silly. They try to deny the most obvious things, but love isn't something you're supposed to deny." She leaned back and poured herself another cup of tea. "You should have heard Mycroft Holmes wondering why Sherlock was upset, when it has been obvious for months that he's been beside himself with worry for John Watson. Just because he wouldn't go to such links to save a man, he thinks that Sherlock..."

"What lengths. What has Sherlock done for John?"

"Well, you know, the thing with the drugs. That was all supposed to snap John out of his stupor, but then I think Sherlock went a bit overboard in the end."

"What? Are you saying that Sherlock took those drugs and almost killed himself, almost got himself murdered, to snap John Watson out of his depression. What in the world made him think that that would work?"

"Well, in all honesty, it wasn't really his idea. It was Mary's."

"But Mary is dead!"

"That doesn't seem to have stopped her from giving us her opinion on everything that's happening. It's put me off the mail service, and that's no mistake. I don't wish harm on anyone, but some days, I really do wish that she would just stay dead."

"What do you mean, stay dead? She's not..."

"No, no. I didn't mean to scare you. After Sherlock and that Adler woman, I'm sure you must be rattled, but Mary Watson is dead for certain. I assume you saw the body?"

"Yes."

"Then you know it's true. I'm sorry to have upset you. You were friends, weren't you?"

"Yes. But I can't help but notice that you don't seem to have liked her much."

"Well. I don't wish to speak ill of the dead, but I really wish that John had never brought that woman into the house."

"How can you say that? I know that she and John had some troubles, but Mary was perfectly charming, and she is Rosie's mother."

"I know, I'm sorry I mentioned it. I never meant to upset you. Here, let me top off your tea."

Mrs Hudson poured a bit more tea into her half full cup. Molly watched the steam rise up. She remembered the way Sherlock and Mary acted together, all smiles when John was in the room only to fall into abrupt silence once he left. She realized that here was a source of information that she had never tapped.

"Mrs Hudson, do you, by any chance, know what there was between Sherlock and Mary Watson?"

"Other than John you mean?"

Molly frowned. "I guess, yes, other than that. Why were they always so wary around each other?"

"I expect it's because Mary shot him. Try as you might, it does tend to make one feel a bit awkward. I know."

"Wait, the person who shot Sherlock… that was Mary?"

"Oh! I thought you knew. You were so close to them both. Didn't anyone tell you?"

Molly sat back in her chair, the events of the last year spinning around in her mind. It didn't make any sense at all. Mary was the one who shot Sherlock? She thought that it was that media mogul. She thought that it had been hushed up because of his money. Sherlock had actually died and had to be revived. He had spent months in the hospital. There had been that infection when they thought that they might lose him again, and all along, Mary…?

"I know. It's confusing, but it's like I said before. People deny the most obvious things. John didn't want his wife and his best friend to be enemies, so they decided not to be. They just swept all that past under the rug to make John Watson happy. Sometimes I wish that John and Sherlock had never met, but then I realize what would have happened to Sherlock if he hadn't been there. He would have died a dozen times over. I suppose that we just have to wait for it all to work itself out."

"For what to work out?"

Mrs Hudson smiled. "You need to be patient. You may feel like everything is up in the air, but you just need to wait. When you've lived as long as I have, you realize that things will eventually find their true path. Sherlock will see your true value, and John will come to his senses, and everything will be right. I'm sure it will."

She patted Molly's hand, and then rose to her feet. "You know, I think I have a bit of cake left over. Let me get you a slice. A day like you've had deserves a bit of chocolate cake. What do you say?"

Molly nodded and Mrs Hudson searched through the cabinets as Molly sipped a bit more of her tea.


	3. An unexpected caller

The phone rang just as Mrs Hudson was putting a lemon cake in the oven. She closed the oven door and then went over to pick up the handle of her phone.

"Hello. Oh Sherlock! Are you okay? The Hospital! Well, I don't know why I'm surprised. Yes, Yes of course. I will bring it to you as soon as possible. Take care, dear. I'll be right over."

"Mrs Hudson, what is it?" Molly asked.

"That was Sherlock. John's been almost drowned down a well. They've taken him to the hospital to check him out, but all of his clothes are soaked! Poor dear! Sherlock asked me to get some clothes from his old room and bring them around to the hospital. Why Molly, didn't you want to talk to Sherlock? You can come along."

"Oh no, Mrs Hudson. I wouldn't want to intrude, not when someone is ill."

"Nonsense. I'm sure it would cheer him up to see a friendly face."

"I couldn't, besides, who would watch your cake? Someone needs to be here to take it out of the oven."

"Oh my, the cake! Very good thought, dear. The boys will want some snacks when they get back. Are you sure that you won't mind staying here?"

"No of course not, Mrs Hudson. You get the clothes for John, and I will take care of everything until you get back."

"Oh, you needn't stay after the cake is done. Just leave it on the table, and you can go back to your flat. But surely this is an inconvenience to you."

"Oh it's no bother at all. You hurry on. I'll be fine."

"Well, if you're sure. Thank you, dear." Mrs Hudson said as she started up the steps, one hand on the wall. "Oh goodness, my hip!"

Molly locked the door behind her once Mrs Hudson left, still muttering about the mess upstairs. She sat at the kitchen table. Now that she was faced with seeing Sherlock, she was suddenly shy. She didn't want to hear him take it all back again.

She took out the cake and placed it on the rack to cool only to be surprised by the sound of the front door opening.

"Mrs Hudson? Did you forget something?" she said walking out into the hall only to come face to face with Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh Molly, what are you doing here?" he asked. Sherlock wasn't wearing his coat. His suit was wrinkled, and his shoes and trousers were damp. He turned toward the steps and began to trudge up them slowly. He looked exhausted. Molly followed him.

He stopped dead once he entered the flat. The living room had been totally destroyed. The window glass blown out and the chairs charred and knocked over. Every surface was covered with ash. Sherlock had stopped in the center of the room as if he had just remembered about the explosion. Then he turned picking his way through the rubble and over to his bedroom door. He dragged it open displacing a pile of charred books as he entered into his bedroom. The room was mostly unscathed. Molly walked up to the door watching as Sherlock removed his suit jacket and threw it on his dresser. He turned his head then to look at her. "Molly, are you still here? Why?...oh...the phone call."

"No Sherlock, it's okay. You don't need to say anything. I know it was under duress."

"You do? So you know about my sister?"

"Yes, I...sister? What sister? You don't have a sister. Do you, Sherlock?"

"Apparently yes, although I don't remember her. She has just put Mycroft, John, and me through a series of life and death tests. We only just escaped."

"Life...and death? Was my phone call…?"

"A test. Yes. Eurus said that if you didn't say…what you did, that she would kill you."

"Oh. So you… it _was_ under duress. You didn't mean..."

"Molly, I really am exhausted, and I think I still may be a little drugged, so do you mind?"

"Do I mind what? Oh? I'm in your bedroom. I'm sorry." Molly stepped back out through the door turning back to watch as Sherlock pulled the blanket off of his bed causing a stack of books and papers to fall on the floor, then he kicked off his shoes, climbed onto the bed and collapsed. Molly reached into the room and turned off the light. Then she made her way back downstairs.

She had wanted to talk to Sherlock, to get to the bottom of his feelings for her, but she couldn't talk to Sherlock when he was like this. Why had she even come? Molly had just resolved to leave and forget about the whole thing when the phone rang in Mrs Hudson's flat. She walked inside and picked up the phone, expecting it to be Mrs Hudson checking up on her, but an entirely different woman's voice greeted her.

 _"Molly Hooper. I know what you truly want, and I will give it to you."_

"Who is this?"

 _"You know who I am."_

"Are you...are you Sherlock's sister?"

 _"Yes. You can get what you want, but it won't be the way you expected it to be. You must give up all notions of a white dress."_

"What are you talking about? How could you possibly know what I want?"

 _"You aren't difficult to understand, Molly Wallflower. All you have is your job, and now you've lost even that. You're tired of going home every night to an empty flat. You don't want that emptiness for the rest of your life. You love Sherlock, but you don't think that you will ever convince him to marry you. You always expected that one day you would have a child, but time is catching up with you, and you don't want to be the last of your line. If you were to be perfectly honest, what you really want is to have your father back. You wish that he had never died, but he did, and you don't believe in ghosts."_

"Why are you saying this? Is this one of your tests?"

 _"No, not a test. A gift. To create the life that you dream of, you will need three keys. Each one unlocks someone's heart. To unlock Sherlock's heart, get him to tell you about the dream he had on the plane."_

"Unlock his heart? What do you mean by..."

 _"Quiet. In less than two minutes, they'll realize that I've stolen the guard's phone. Just listen. To unlock John Watson's heart, ask him the history of his gun. And the last heart to unlock is your own. To open it, you must look under your bed."_

"What do you mean? Is this a trick to hurt Sherlock?"

 _"Hurt? No. I am helping him by helping you."_

"But why would you want to help him?"

" _Because entropy prevents me from turning back time, and Sherlock still misses Redbeard."_

"I don't understand. What does this all mean?"

But Molly never found out because the phone suddenly cut off.

.

Molly put down the handset just as Mrs Hudson came in.

"Hello dear, John is doing fine. I didn't get to see him as he is resting, but he should be released sometime tomorrow afternoon. Sherlock had already left by the time I got there. Such a busy man. Always gadding about. Is he here?"

"Yes. He's sleeping upstairs."

"Is he now? He certainly must be exhausted to go to bed when John Watson is in hospital, though they did say he was just fine. Well, I'd better get up early. He'll be needing a good breakfast tomorrow. I'm not his housekeeper, but they will need looking after. Things are never easy with those two. Oh, are you going now? Wouldn't you like to stay for a bite of cake?"

"Sorry, no, Mrs Hudson. I have to go."

Molly pulled on her coat and rushed out of the flat. The phone call had disturbed her greatly. How could this person have known to find her at Mrs Hudson's when it was a spur of the moment decision to come here? What had she meant by that call? And how could she possibly have known what was under her bed when Molly hadn't opened the box in fifteen years?


	4. Suitcase of Dreams

Molly's mother had died when she was ten. She was a loving woman, a talented woman, and her father had been heartbroken. Molly tried to take up the slack caused by her absence wherever she could. She began by cooking dinner, and cleaning up around the flat. She also mended her father's clothes, and taught herself to knit when he lost the scarf she'd given him.

It was hard for them at first, and Molly spent lots of time at home. She didn't have many friends, and she came straight home after school everyday. She was lonely, but she had a great imagination and an active fantasy life.

Molly Hooper returned from two twenty one Baker street that night, and went straight into her bedroom. She dug past the shoes and fallen night clothes under her bed, and pulled out her mother's old suitcase. It was small but thick with rounded edges. The surface was made of a woven fabric of red and pink roses. The pattern had faded with age, and one metal latch was broken. She had taped it shut five years ago when she had cleaned out her father's house, She brushed off the dust and examined it. No one had opened it since then, so how had Eurus known what was inside?

Molly pulled the tape off, and then unlocked the case. On the top was a pink scarf. She had forgotten that it was there. She put it to her nose and smelled the rose perfume that was her mother's favorite. Then she looked down on the sheets and sheets of her own writings.

Day after day she had spent her time alone with her writing and her poetry. She had written her fantasies and her dreams: wild, erotic, fantastic things. When they had moved to London, she had carried them in this case. Then she learned that father was sick, and all of it was forgotten as she put everything aside in her quest to get into medical school and cure him. She had found the case when she was cleaning out the house after his funeral. She didn't want to open it, but she couldn't possibly throw it away. Eventually she had shoved it under her bed. How could this be the key to unlock her heart?

She picked up the first page, read it. The words made her smile. It said in a thin, scratchy hand...

 _Barefoot and free_

 _I walk up to the fallen prince._

 _Handsome is he_

 _His sword propped on a nearby fence._

 _Touching his chest_

 _He begs me to give him my heart._

 _I take his horse_

 _steal his sword and cut him apart._

She remembers it now. The tale of the maiden prince. It went on like that for three full pages. She had never written an ending, but the maiden had gone on adventures and saved countless princesses before the story had petered out into nothing. Mostly because there were a limited number of words that rhymed with horse. She had regretted calling him _No Name_ , because logically that meant that the horse should end up lame, but if her horse went lame, how could the story go on? How would she reach the kingdom of Linn and climb the unclimbable cliffs to reach the sky?

She had wanted to be a writer when she was a child. She had planned to be bigger than Dr. Seuss, and more famous than Dickens! She was going to become rich, and buy a big house for her dad. Molly's eyes softened, and her smile grew wide as she remembered the girl she had been then. Looking out of the window of her little flat, she would see the clouds and imagine wings that would let her fly above them. She met wild creatures that she tamed. They became part of her family. She rescued lion cubs and raised them as their mother. Later, they defended her when she was attacked. She wasn't alone then. She had gone into the wild, wild, world and changed it to suit her. She was fearless then.

 _Fearless_. That's what her father had called her from his deathbed. He didn't know that the only thing that she had truly feared was his death.

She put the sheets back in the case and closed the lid. Then she wrapped the scarf around her neck and carried the suitcase into the living room. Toby rubbed against her leg, so she put it down on the table and fed him. In the cabinet beside the cat food was a bottle of wine. She had bought it as a surprise for her and Tom's one year anniversary, but they hadn't lasted a year.

"Damn that stupid prince!" She said picking up the bottle. She opened it, grabbed a glass, and poured herself a drink. Then she carried the suitcase into the living room, pushed aside her coffee table, and sat on the carpet as she read through her old writings.

 _She walks across the world_

 _In a dress of silver-blue_

 _Her train, you'll find_

 _will drag behind_

 _One thousand miles, and two._

Sherlock's sister had been wrong. The flat she came home to wasn't empty. She had Toby to keep her company, and she still had her dreams.

She hadn't realized that she had passed out until she opened her eyes to find herself staring at the ceiling. Her mouth was dry. Perhaps she shouldn't have drunk the entire bottle herself.

She turned her head and noticed a pair of shoes and some nicely tailored trousers near her nose. She looked up then to find someone else looking down at her.


	5. Hangover

Molly sat up. "Oh! Aren't you, Sherlock's brother, Mycroft?"

Molly jumped up to her feet, only to sway and almost fall. A black gloved hand steadied her and guided her to sit on the couch.

She touched her head, which was throbbing. And blinked her eyes. She heard the sound of the faucet running, and a few moments later, a glass of water was thrust into her hand. She drank it. Then she looked up and saw the man standing over her. She had seen him a few times before. It wasn't as if they had ever talked for more than a minute or two. He had come with Sherlock to view the fake Adler body, and he had been at the funeral, but they had really never formally met, so it was odd that he would be standing in her flat helping her through a hangover.

She drank the glass until it was almost empty, and then she gave a deep sigh and opened her eyes, fully. Mycoft Holmes was standing in front of her in a dark three-piece suit, black coat and gloves, amidst a sea of adolescent poetry.

"My papers!" she cried trying to get up, as a firm gloved hand touched her shoulder to hold her back.

"Please allow me." The man said squatting down to the floor and picking up each sheet before placing it carefully into the open box in the middle of the floor. He did it quickly and efficiently. Surely, he didn't have enough time to read it...or did he? He was a Holmes after all. Molly's cheeks started to redden.

When the box was full, he replaced the lid. Molly felt a bit hot. She touched her neck to find the pink scarf still wrapped around it. She yawned, and then realized the oddness of the situation. Why on Earth would Sherlock's brother have come into her flat? Wasn't he supposed to have been tortured yesterday?

"Are you alright?" she blurted out. "Only I heard that you and Sherlock were… that something had happened to you."

"I should ask the same of you, Miss Hooper. Are you alright?"

"Is that why you came here? How late is it? Have I been passed out all day? Did Sherlock send you?"

"It is nine-thirty in the morning, and no, Sherlock did not send me. To answer your question, yes, I did come to check on your health."

"But, I don't understand? I saw Sherlock. He looked so exhausted, and John is in hospital. If you were in a state anything like they were, you should be in bed, not spending your mornings breaking into the flat of someone you barely know."

"I appreciate your concern, but I do not require much sleep. We may not have spoken very often, Miss Hooper, but I have been aware of you for quite a long time, and given certain recent circumstances, it behooves me to more formally make your acquaintance. Perhaps tea, next Tuesday morning? Would that be acceptable to you?"

"Yes, I suppose, but it still doesn't explain why you are here."

Mycroft had pulled out his phone. He tapped a bit on it without removing his gloves, and then put it away. "I came because it is my appointed duty to clean up the messes of the Holmes family."

"Oh God!" Molly said, "You were in the room when Sherlock made that call weren't you?"

"Yes."

"So, you've come to tell me that it was all a mistake, and that Sherlock didn't mean any of it."

"Nothing of the kind. I didn't come because of Sherlock. I came because last night you received a call. The call came from my sister who even as she was being transported back to a high security cell was able to steal the phone of one of her guards and call you. I came to see if you were alright, and I found you on the floor passed out from drink. What exactly did Eurus say to upset you, Miss Hooper?"

"She didn't say anything. It wasn't important."

"I beg to differ. There are legions of psychiatrists and psychologists who have dedicated their lives to the study of the human psyche, and collectively they do not have the understanding of the human mind that my sister had when she was seven. If she talked to you, she may have planted something in your brain. She can be quite subtle. You must tell me what she said."

"You said she was subtle. How do you know that the message wasn't designed to hurt you?"

"Was her message designed to hurt? Is that what she said?"

"I asked her that myself, and she said that it wasn't to hurt but to help."

"She told you why she had called?"

"Yes, she said that entropy meant that she couldn't… what was it exactly? She said, ' _Entropy prevents me from turning back time, and Sherlock still misses Redbeard_ '. Whatever that means."

Mycroft opened his mouth in an O and sucked in a breath. It was as unmasked as he had ever been with her. He looked like a boy who had just had a revelation, but she was not to learn what that revelation was, because he immediately pulled himself together. He stood up straight and still, his old mask falling back over his face.

"Thank you, Miss Hooper. I am sorry to disturb your morning. I look forward to seeing you next Tuesday. Good Day." Then he turned and walked out of her flat, closing the door, and locking it from the outside.

She rubbed her face and fell back on the couch, too tired to get herself another cup of water. It seemed like only moments, but it was at least twenty minutes by the clock, when there was a knock on the door. She jumped to her feet, afraid that Mycroft Holmes had returned, and opened the door to find a very pretty woman with dark hair. She passed a basket to Molly and said, "Complements of Mr Holmes" before turning on her heel and leaving. Molly looked after her for a moment before closing the door and staggering back over to the couch. She put the basket on the floor and rifled through it to find some bottled water, ginger biscuits, tomato juice, and something labeled Skiman's finest hangover remedy. She opened a bottle of water, and drank it down.

Molly could feel the gears moving in the world's machine. What had she got herself into?


	6. Love, by any other name

Molly put a pile of clothing in the wash. Then she proceeded to untangle the ones that she had dried. She had put her stockings in with the clothes and they had got tangled around each other. She worked them free, and folded a set of clothes for work that week only to realize that she wasn't going to work any more.

Her assistant, Eddie had told her that the inspector was terrorizing everyone so much that people were afraid to do their jobs. ''The backlog of autopsies is becoming truly tragic', he said in a text. She didn't know whether to frown or smile that she wasn't there to witness it. Sitting alone in her flat Molly was forced to realize that the only part of her life that had ever worked was her career. What would she do if she didn't have it anymore? Who would she be then?

Tom had never liked her work. It was one of the things that had driven them apart. She was proud of her work, but his family was uncomfortable when she brought it up. Tom's mother had never liked her, thinking that she was too old for her son, and her job inappropriate for someone who was to raise her grandchildren. The other family members had not been so harsh though, and she missed them. No not the people exactly, but the thought of them. The thought that in one stroke she could have a family again. That she would be accepted among a large clan who would count her as their own.

Tom was a nice kid. He gave affection easily and his sex had been so enthusiastic. It had been wonderful. She was the one who hadn't fit in the end. She hadn't been willing to take time off for the trip to Italy he wanted for their honeymoon. She wasn't willing to compromise her career to have children right away, but that's what Tom had insisted, spurred on by his mother who urged him, _'to get the use out of the cow before it became too old to breed'_.

In the end, it wasn't the children or her work that had broken them up. It was the fight that they'd had after leaving John's wedding. A fight where she had screamed at the top of her lungs. The fight that they could never come back from. The fight where he had accused her of caring more for Sherlock Holmes than she did for him, and she had admitted that was true.

Molly and her cat were eating lunch, Toby's was canned catfood, and Molly's was lowfat yogurt, when she got a call from Mrs Hudson.

"Molly dear, do you think you might be able to come over. You left in such a hurry that you forgot your wallet."

She looked around then and noticed the absence of her purse on the table by the door. That's right, her transit pass had been in her coat pocket, and she had come straight home after the call from Eurus Holmes. But going back would mean talking to Sherlock, and she thought that she knew what he would say.

"I, um. Can you send it over?"

"Are you worried about the money, dear. I can pay for a taxi if you need me to."  
Molly bit her lip. She was being a coward.

"No, I'll come," she said. "Thank you."

It was time for her to be honest with herself. This relationship with Sherlock had gone nowhere because she had been too afraid that to push him would be to lose him. Afraid that pressing him for his feelings would lead him to say what she'd suspected in her heart, that he didn't care for her at all. The phone confession had changed all that. She knew now that he cared about her, he loved her, but how? Love was a word that meant many things. What exactly had he meant by it? She had loved Tom, in her way, but never like she loved Sherlock.

Love, what did the word even mean?

She smiled suddenly as she remembered her old English class. She said,

" _What's in a name, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."_

What was happening to her? It must have been reading her old notes that had made her so nostalgic. She hadn't quoted Romeo and Juliet since her school days. She had loved that play, not for the same reasons that most had. She had always wondered if it were truly possible to fake death. She found herself looking for it, when the new bodies came into the morgue. Wondering if one of the corpses was just asleep awaiting her true love's kiss. That wasn't the kind of joke that she could share with Tom, but Sherlock would be fascinated by. He might even know a poison that could do it.

She finished her meal and threw out the carton readying herself to leave the flat. There was no need for her to be afraid of Sherlock Holmes. She was an adult, and so was he. It was time to get whatever feelings they had for each other out in the open. She was going to talk to him, and she wouldn't rest until he had told her what he really felt about her.

She grabbed her keys and her transit pass, then as an afterthought she picked up her mother's scarf and wrapped it around her neck before leaving the flat.


	7. Talking Dreams with Sherlock

Mrs Hudson was at the door when Molly arrived at the flat on Baker Street.

"Oh Molly, I just need to get a few things from the shops. You wouldn't mind waiting, would you? Your purse is there on the hall table, and I left the door to my flat open if you want to have a lie down or watch the telly."

"I could just take my purse and go. You don't have to..."

"Nonsense, dear. I'll only be a few minutes. You make yourself at home." She patted Molly on the shoulder then and went outside closing the door and leaving Molly alone.

Molly walked down the hall and picked up her purse. Then she looked up at the ceiling. She put the strap over her arm, clutched it, and then trudged slowly up the steps to Sherlock's flat.

The room was an absolute mess of charred items and broken glass. Sherlock was sitting in the remains of John's chair. He had thrown a blanket over it, hiding the worst of the burns. He was slouched in the chair his feet spread out to the side as if he were a rag doll.

He looked up at her as she entered. His eyes were bright blue, and his chin was covered with the smallest hint of a beard. Molly caught her breath. She thought, _"How can he look like he was just run over by a lorry and still be the most handsome man I have ever seen?"_

"Hello, Molly. Come in. I'd offer you a seat, but I seem to be all out."

Molly clutched her purse to her side and then, stepping carefully over the debris, she said, "That's all right. I'll find one myself."

She picked up the charred hat rack that had fallen on it's side, and hung her coat and purse on it, leaving her scarf draped around her neck. Then she walked into the kitchen, picked up a chair from the floor and carried it into the living room. She placed it in front of Sherlock, and sat down.

"So, Sherlock. How are you today? How's John?"

"John is fine. They released him this morning. He and Rosie should be safely back at his flat by now. I can see that you've had quite a night. I've seen albino squirrels who have less red in their eyes."

Molly touched her face. Then she looked up toward the mirror only to find that it was gone, cracked into a dozen shards that lay on the stones of the fireplace. She dropped her hand and scowled. "Well, I may have drunk a bit much last night, but that's still no way to greet a friend?"

"What do you mean? I said 'Hello'."

Molly looked over at Sherlock. She bit her lip. She was just opening her mouth to speak when Sherlock beat her to it.

"You've come to talk about emotions, haven't you Molly?" Sherlock said. "You want to ask about the phone call. Can't we put this off until another day, I'm exhausted."

"Exhausted. I didn't think. Are you hurt, Sherlock? What happened to you?"

"I told you. I have a long lost sister, and she likes to play games. We barely survived. Others were not so fortunate."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"Not really. I've had enough of my innermost feelings spread out for the world to see this week. I don't want to do any more soul searching."

"Soul searching?"

"Maybe 'setting priorities' would be a more accurate definition. My sister forced me to chose between killing John or Mycroft. Easy choice, I know, but I somehow failed to do it. I wonder if I'll live to regret it. Why was my brother at your apartment this morning?"

"How did you..."

"Molly, please... Just answer the question."

Molly sucked in a breath. "No."

"No?"

"No, you answer my question first. Why did you say 'I love you'?"

Sherlock looked down at his hands. "I told you that my sister ..."

"I know what you said. I want to know what you meant by it."

"Molly..."

"Answer the question. Do you love me?"

"Well… yes."

"And you care about what happens to me?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"Then, would you … if the circumstances were right and everything was settled, ever consider... marrying me?"

Sherlock looked up at her. His mouth opened slightly. Then he closed it. His head bowed involuntarily, but he fought to keep eye contact. "Well, Molly… I don't think… that is to say, marriage is something that I would not… could not, in good conscience, ever do."

"Why not?"

"It's simply that... all emotion, and particularly those softer ones involved in marriage, are antithetical to the cold, precise reasoning of a balanced mind. To make such an offer, such an agreement would put me, both of us in fact, in a false position. While marriage can be admirable in some ways - it is, for example, excellent for understanding motives and actions, for me to ever engage in such… passions. It would introduce dangerous distractions which might interfere with my reasoning ability. As I've told John before, any strong emotions would, for me, be like introducing grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in a high-powered lens. It would be… very disturbing. In fact, the experiences of the last few weeks, no months, have greatly interrupted my logical facilities. It is the only excuse I have for how I failed to observe that Eurus was right in front of me, manipulating me the entire time."

"So that's a no."

"Molly, although I care greatly for you.. as a friend, and as someone whom I trust and respect. I don't think that I would ever want us to be...married. I'm sorry."

"That's fine."

"Fine?"

"I just needed to hear you say that. What I'd like to know now is if you would be amenable to other arrangements."

Sherlock sat up in his chair. "What other arrangements?"

"I'm not sure yet. It's just I realized that I'm not getting any younger, and I can't just keep hoping for things to happen to me. If I want something, I have to take responsibility for it and act."

"What is it you want from me, Molly?" Sherlock said leaning forward, a wary look in his eyes.

"First, I want you to tell me about the dream that you had on the plane?"

A puzzled look crossed Sherlock's face. "My dream? How did you know about that?"

"Please Sherlock, Just answer me."

Sherlock clasped his hands together in his lap. "It wasn't a dream, _per se._ I was in my mind palace. I know that Mycroft thinks it is simply a drug induced delusion, but I could control it… for the most part. I dreamed that I lived in the time of the Victorians. The year 1895 to be exact. I was investigating a murder. One I solved by the way. You were there, working in the morgue as always."

"I was there? In eighteen ninety five? It wasn't a very historically accurate dream then."

"Oh no, it was very detailed. But, if you are referring to your gender. In the dream, you were a man."

"A man!"

"Oh don't take it badly. You make a very handsome man. You were a bit angry though. Always barking at everyone, but I don't think that is a completely false representation given that you've struck me more than once."

"So, you see me as the person in the morgue. Someone masculine who is always angry."

"It was just a dream."

"I thought you said that you controlled it."

"Yes, well… not completely. It surprised me in the end, Moriarty messed it all up."

"James Moriarty? He was in your dream as well?"

"Yes." Sherlock said smiling, then on seeing her stern look he pressed his lips together and glanced down at his feet.

"You liked Jim, didn't you?" Molly asked.

"How could you say that? He tried to kill me."

"Mary succeeded, and you still liked her."

Sherlock looked surprised. "That was different."

"Why?"

"Because we both agreed. Mary was so incredibly talented, and if she was willing to put those skills aside for John, then who was I to hold a grudge."

"And did she hold a grudge… against you?"

"I don't know. I never could read Mary. I suppose not given what she did for me in the end."

"And what did she do for you?"

"Surely you've heard. Mrs Hudson obviously told you that she shot me. She must have mentioned then that she threw herself in front of a bullet to save my life."

"But was that for you, or for her?"

"Molly! You just chided me for being impolite. Mary is dead."

"But she chose the time of her death. She chose to die in a way that would make her a martyr. A way that neither you nor John could ever forget. Isn't it a bit of a burden, that you can't hold on to the bad things that she did? That now you will have to think of her as the person who died to save you, instead of the woman who shot and nearly killed you?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you, but I've been thinking of my life. And I realized that every day starts here, where we are now. I'd like my life to be better, so I'm going to ask for what I want. So, I'm asking you as a friend, can you do me a favor?"

"What favor?"

"Can you give me a hug?"

"A what?"

"A hug. If I am destined to become a crazy old cat lady, the least that I can get from my friend is a hug."

"Come now Molly. You can hardly be called old."

Molly rolled her eyes. She rose to her feet and then looked at Sherlock, arms opening toward him. Sherlock glanced up at her, and then pushed on the arms of the chair to stand.

There were two steps of distance between them. Molly took the first step. Then Sherlock, slowly took a step toward her. She looked up into his eyes. They stared for a moment, then she turned her face away and closed the rest of the distance, wrapping her arms around Sherlock's waist. He was warm, and his chest was so firm. She hadn't noticed that her eyes were closed until she opened them just as his cheek touched the hair on the top of her head. She clutched him tighter.

She had imagined kissing Sherlock many times, but somehow she had never imagined hugging him. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and she felt so at peace. It wasn't at all like her dreams had been. Dreams are just a starting place. They tell you where you want to go. Reality has to be built one step at a time.

Molly closed her eyes again trying to put in memory the feel of Sherlock's hands resting lightly on her back. Then she felt his chest tense and heard his indrawn breath. She turned her head toward the door and saw John.

He was standing in the doorway holding little Rosie. His face was frozen in a look of shock. Rosie turned in his arms and held her hands out toward Sherlock. She wanted a hug too. John, however was still. He held tightly onto her, not even noticing her discomfort as she wriggled to free herself from his grasp.

"John," Sherlock said letting go of Molly as he took a step toward him. John was still as a statue. "I didn't hear you come up the stairs."

Rosie was struggling in John's arms now, leaning precariously forward. John simply glanced between the two of them, his mouth hanging open, not noticing Rosie's predicament until Rosie fell from his hands. Sherlock rushed forward and caught her before she hit the floor, and she chortled with glee, laughing and wrapping her arms around his neck.

John seemed to wake then. He stepped forward and reached out a hand to touch her back, but she was firmly held in Sherlock's arms. John turned his face to look again at Molly. Then he breathed in sharply and took a step back.

"I just stopped by to see Mrs Hudson," John said. "I was going to ask her to watch Rosie while I dropped by work, but she wasn't here. I didn't mean to disturb your...uh..."

"I can watch Rosie for you," Molly said. "I don't mind."

"Yes, of course," John said looking back at Sherlock. His eyes trailing over his face and body. Then he took a step back and slipped the diaper bag off of his shoulder and onto the floor. "Well, if you really don't mind watching her, I..I've got to go." John turned away then and ran down the stairs. Molly could hear the door opening and closing.

Sherlock turned toward her. "I've got to go after him. Will you…?" He held Rosie out to her.

"Oh Rosie! Of course I'll watch her Sherlock," she said taking Rosie and holding her on her hip. Rosie patted at her breasts, and then turned back to look at Sherlock who was already shrugging off his dressing gown as he rushed down the stairs.

Molly walked to the landing and looked down the stairs to see Mrs Hudson entering just as Sherlock left.

"What's the hurry?" Mrs Hudson said looking over her shoulder. "Aren't you staying for lunch, Sherlock? You forgot your coat!" The door slammed shut then, and she looked up at Molly and Rosie, bags still hanging from her hands.


	8. Godmother

Molly followed Mrs Hudson into her flat carrying Rosie on her hip. She was growing so fast now that she no longer fit easily in her arms. Her blond curls reminded Molly of Mary, except that she always suspected Mary of being a bleach blond. Could it be that she was truly blond but she dyed her roots? No one would do that, would they?

Now that Mary was gone, she couldn't ask her about it, and what would she tell Rosie when she was old enough to ask about her mother? Then again, would she even know Rosie then? Of course she would. She was her godmother after all. And Sherlock was her godfather. She hugged the girl, lifting her into her arms, watching as Mrs Hudson put the bags on the table.

"I can't understand what all the fuss is about? It looks like rain out. Then again, Sherlock is always rushing about with no care at all about his own health. What I'd like to know is if he's coming back for dinner? I bought a roast. It's much too much for me to eat on my own. You'll stay for dinner, won't you, Molly?"

"I don't know," Molly said. "I had only planned to drop by for a moment."

"Oh well, whatever you think best. At least I have little Rosie here to keep me company. And poor John having been trapped in a cold well for hours! He could have caught his death. And then where would little Rosie be?"

Molly was surprised at how her heart beat faster at the thought. If John had died, she would have to take care of her. It would be daunting, it would be difficult. She would have to change her life. And Sherlock, would he be there too? But that was an awful thing. She shouldn't even imagine it.

"I wanted to see if he was all right after all of that fuss in the hospital. He has such a hard time, taking care of a baby daughter all alone, poor dear. I'll make sure to save him a bite to take home, just as a friendly gesture. I'm not their housekeeper. But after all that's gone on, I think that they could both use a home cooked meal, don't you?"

"I think they would appreciate that, Mrs Hudson."

"You're not leaving right away, are you, Molly? Someone needs to watch little Rosie, while I start on those potatoes."

"Of course I'll watch her," Molly said as she sat down on the couch.

"Did you have a chance to have a talk with young Sherlock?"

"Yes, I did."

"And what did he say?"

"Well..um. He told me a little about what happened to him. But, Mrs Hudson, what has been happening to you lately?"

"To me? Why I'm glad you asked. Did you know that Mrs Turner's married ones are leaving?"

"They are?"

"Yes. It was the last explosion. They had a shelf up against the wall with priceless glass art. It fell and the art shattered. It was the last straw for them. There had been the explosion across the street a few years back that had ruined their windows, and it isn't as if Sherlock is always the best of neighbors with his violin at all hours and the smells. Honestly, you wouldn't know what I have to do to keep the neighbors from calling the police on him. Mrs Turner is in a frenzy, because they've been such steady tenants. She's afraid of who will come looking now. Back when Sherlock was gone, I tried to rent out the flat, and the oddest sorts came by to look at it. Luckily Sherlock's brother took to paying the bill just as a way to store his things. I realize now he was doing it because he knew that Sherlock would come back someday. Molly, Why don't you give Rosie some milk. She's looking very fussy. I think that if you feed her now, she will go right off to sleep."

"You may be right, Mrs Hudson."

"Well I do love children so. I wish there were more around here, but these addresses have become so trendy, no one wants to start a family here anymore."

Molly takes the bottle out of the bag and holds Rosie on her knee while she feeds her. The baby is excited, bouncing up and down, but before long she quiets down, and just as Mrs Hudson predicted, she falls asleep. Mrs Hudson takes her and lays her down on her bed. Molly watches as she passes into the other room. Her little arms hanging limp, her mouth moving as if she were still drinking. Molly smiles. Then she feels a strange emptiness inside her chest.

Her phone rings. She sighs looking at the name, steeling herself to have to explain her work situation yet again. She pastes on a fake smile and answers the phone.

"Nancy!"

"Molly!" Nancy cries out so loud that Molly pulls the phone a little bit further from her ear. She can hear the sound of laughter and glasses clinking together that show that she is calling from a pub, but of course she is! Today is Friday. "Molly, Where are you?"

"Visiting a friend. How are you?"

"Half-way to pissed. We were hoping you would join us. The big three-oh! We are all ready to toast your birthday. Why aren't you here?"

"Well, I got reprimanded and..."

"We know all about Inspector-zilla. We've had to talk to him all week. That's why we need to drink so much now. Come on, Molly! Get yourself over here before Alice starts singing again."

"What's wrong with singing?" A drunk voice says in the background.

"I wasn't going to tell you this but, we got you a present for your birthday! We were going to give it to you on the day, but you left before we had a chance. Oh no, she's starting to sing. Hurry up and get yourself over here before she starts challenging strangers to drinking contests."

"I don't challenge strangers..." a drunk voice sings before the phone cuts off.

"Who was that, dear?" Mrs Hudson asks "Some friends of yours?"

"Yes. They want me to come over, but it is so far away, I don't think that I can get there in time."

"Why, if it's that important to you. I can take you in my car. Let me just get Mrs Turner to come over to watch the baby."

Mrs Hudson picks up her keys and coat, and puts a pair of dark glasses on, but before she can reach the door it opens, and Sherlock walks in. He is still coatless, and his skin is almost as white as his shirt.

"I wasn't able to catch him," Sherlock said. "He's getting faster. Are you going somewhere Mrs Hudson?"

"I was just about to ask Mrs Turner to watch the baby while I drive Molly to a party."

"I can drive her if you want me to."

"Oh can you? That would be a mercy. I was just about to start a pot roast." Mrs Hudson passes her key to Sherlock. "But this time, remember to take your coat and scarf, and whatever you do, don't tell John that I let you drive my car. He's been wanting to drive it since the first moment he saw it."

"Your secret is safe with me," Sherlock said bending down to kiss Mrs Hudson on the top of her head, while snatching her dark glasses and putting them on his face as he placed an arm around her shoulders. She hugged him back.

"Oh Sherlock, love, you drive safe."

"I'll drive as safely as you would."

"Now I'm worried," Mrs Hudson said chuckling as she walked back into the bedroom to check on the baby.

Sherlock rushed out the door coming back a few moments later wearing his coat. He threaded his scarf around his neck and looked over the top of his glasses at her. "Coming Molly?" he said.

He looked so debonair, she couldn't help but smile and say, "Of course." before walking out of the flat beside him.


	9. The Party

Molly pushed open the pub door to be physically assaulted by the sounds and smells of a crowded bar on Friday Night. She was surprised to see that instead of sitting at their usual back table, they were at a long table right up near the window. She was even more surprised at how the girls all seemed to be plastered to the glass looking out. A host of eyes turned to look at her as she entered, and Nancy, all dark-haired beauty and command, gestured for her to come over.

"My, my, Molly. Quite the entrance you've made. Who was that GORGEOUS man in the red Aston Martin? Oh do tell us. We can't wait to hear all about it."

"Oh, that was just Sherlock."

"Just Sherlock? You mean Sherlock Holmes, the man that you mention only about one thousand times a night? If I had known that he was that attractive, I would have gone after him myself. Is he coming in? If so he has to park that gorgeous car. He wouldn't just park it on the street. Maybe the garage on the corner."

"He's not coming in. He just dropped me off."

"Pity," she said before reaching out a long tanned arm and pulling Molly up against her body. "Anyway, Happy Birthday Molly."

Alice came over and began singing, _"_ _Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday..."_ and all the other girls joined in. _"…_ _to you, Happy Birthday dear Molly, Happy Birthday to you."_

Nancy pulled out a lighter and lit a little candle perched on top of a messy chocolate cake. Molly looked up, suddenly nervous as people all around the pub stared at them. Nancy pushed the cake forward and said, "Come on now, make a wish."

Molly looked at the crowd, and then the cake, and her brain went completely blank. She blew out the candle, and people all around clapped. Then, thankfully, they turned away, and Molly took a seat while someone thrust a fork and then a glass of something alcoholic toward her.

"I bet we all know what you wished for," Nancy said, staring at the window as if she could see the Aston Martin still. "So Molly, tell us all what you have been doing since we last saw you...or _who_ you've been doing." She winked.

"No Nancy, we aren't… together."

"Why not? If I knew someone that hot driving that car, I would be with him in a heartbeat."

"He's my friend."

"Haven't you ever heard of friends with benefits?" Molly blushed. "But you should eat your cake. I can assume with all that has gone on recently that the diet is off for now? We all sympathize. That creature has been terrorizing us all!"

Alice started singing again, and Nancy stood trying to shush her up, but she would have none of it. Molly ate her cake and smiled.

She had started going to these Friday night pub events about two years ago. They had invited her before, but it wasn't until Sherlock's disappearance that she had felt the need to consume large amounts of alcohol.

The news about Sherlock Holmes at the time had been abysmal. Every paper called him a fraud. People who knew that she was friends with him, looked at her with pity, but Nancy and the girls just got her drunk. It was better, much better that sitting alone in her flat wondering when he would suddenly appear.

Nancy finally got Alice to stop singing by getting Vidya, from radiology to challenge her to a game of drunken darts; a game where the loser had to take a drink, usually ensuring that their aim continued to get worse throughout the night. Alice, a surgical nurse who prided herself on her accuracy, could never resist a game.

Nancy sauntered over then and sat artfully down in the wooden pub chair, her eyes focused on Molly. "So Molly, spill! How is it that you, who have lamented how that man has treated you like a kitchen rag for years….how can you just come to the pub in an Aston Martin no less and brush it off as if this is an everyday occurrence. Something has happened. Tell me."

"It wasn't anything."

"Tell me!"

"He said that he loved me."

Nancy jumped to her feet, her hands clasped together, her mouth open wide. "Why that's wonderful, Molly. Congratulations!"

"What is it?"

"What's wonderful? Is she getting married?" The other girls asked, attracted by Nancy's dramatic behavior only to turn back around when Alice's dart hit a lamp.

Well, you need something better to drink than that sugary mess. Mimosas all round!" Nancy called. "I'll be right back." she said, and marched off to the bar returning with a barman who popped open a bottle of inexpensive champagne and mixed the drinks right there at the table for them. Nancy really had a way of getting others to do what she wanted. Molly supposed that being head of the phlebotomy lab gave her some inherent power of command. Or perhaps it was her looks. With her South American eyebrows and dancer's body that looked ready to tango at a moment's notice, she could charm just about anyone.

The party became even more boisterous than before. Molly looked nervously over at the rest of the pub, where many people were staring at them. Then Nancy thrust a champagne glass in her hand. She looked at the bright orange drink and took a sip. It was good, but she resolved to limit herself to only one after the excesses of the other night.

With the arrival of champagne, the match was forgotten. Alice started singing again and some of the other girls joined her. It was some pop song whose words sounded familiar. She didn't know the other women. They looked to be from pediatrics by the patterns on their scrubs. She smiled, finally relaxing from the tension that she had felt all week.

Nancy sat beside her then taking a large sip of her drink before facing her. "So, you love this man, he loves you. What happens next?"

"Well., he doesn't want to marry me."

"Heavens! You didn't start with that did you? Kiss of death. Don't ever mention commitments, just get him into bed as soon as possible."

"Into bed, but he doesn't...he's not..."

"He's not what? A man. He happens to like sex. I know all about his kinks. Shall I buy you a hunting hat?"

"I told you. That was all made up!"

Nancy rolled her eyes before pushing an envelope over to Molly.

"What's this?"

"Your gift. We all chipped in."

Molly opened the envelope to see what looked like a ticket with a sketched picture of a fashion model on it. "What is this?"

"It is a day pass to the Mint Salon, only the hottest hair salon in the city. Get a make over and buy yourself a short dress. I suggest red. Men like red, especially with a flirty little hem."

"But… Salons, manicures? It's not really my style."

"Molly. You've been driven for as long as I've known you, wearing practical clothes, thinking about your work first, never about yourself. But trust me as someone who knows the other side of thirty although I'll never admit it, being single is hard work. You get to a point where you wonder why you even bother waking up in the morning. But you won't ever find someone to love you if you can't find it in your heart to love yourself. This situation may be trying, but the review will be over soon. Enjoy your forced vacation, and live a little."

"Nancy, I appreciate the advice but..."

"But, nothing. Look in the mirror and make yourself over into someone even you can admire. Then go out there and get that man to finally want you back."

Nancy downed her drink in one go and stood up, walking over to complain some more about Alice's singing.

Is that what Sherlock's confession meant, that he wanted her back? She put the envelope into her purse resolved to call the salon the very next day.


	10. Dressing Up

Molly walked into the salon early on Saturday morning only to be met by a thin receptionist who looked down her nose at her as if she were some small, dirty animal who had wandered in by mistake.

"May I help you...Miss…?"

"Hooper, Molly Hooper. I got this certificate from my friends for a hair cut and a manicure."

"A hair... cut?" she said sharply as if the word was an insult. "Our _Stylists_ are very busy. We have many very famous and important clients. I can make you an appointment, possibly for the beginning of next month."

"Next month! But I can't wait that long. If I wait a month before I do anything then he…" Molly took breath, and calmed herself. "Are you sure you can't fit me in sooner. Please take a look. Perhaps you've had a cancellation. I currently have a very flexible schedule."

"I'll check," the woman said turning her head away sharply.

Molly fidgeted, rolling the certificate into a tube while she bit her lip. Last night, she had been so certain that this was the right idea, but she'd tried dressing up for Sherlock before, and all he'd done was embarrass her in front of his friends.

Behind the desk, the woman's curled her lip as she scrolled through the appointments on her computer. Molly turned away and looked out of the glass door to the salon at the people passing by. She didn't want to look like just another face to Sherlock. She wanted to be special, to be the only one.

She had dreamed about Sherlock since the day she met him, but last night's dream had been even more exceptional. In her dream, she had been the Maiden and Sherlock the prince, but in this story ' _stealing his sword_ ' had had a whole new meaning. She blushed to remember it.

The woman was ignoring her. She had stopped to answer the phone. Molly put the certificate back into the pocket of her cardigan. Perhaps this had been a bad idea. She turned toward the door considering walking out, but before she could, a short man in a yellow silk shirt entered. His blond hair stood straight up, and his sharp black collar drew attention to the diamond stud glistening in one ear. The man's eyes turned to her as the door fell closed, and he frowned.

"What do we have here?" he said looking her up and down. "May I?" he asked picking up one of Molly's arms and examining the strawberries on the sleeves of her cardigan. "It's been years since I've seen this particular pattern. I think I last saw it in one of my story books when I was five. You, my dear, are in desperate need of updating. They could put your picture in the dictionary right next to the word, Frumpy."

"Oh, Good Morning, Maestro Paul. I didn't know you were back from your trip. This is just a certificate client. I was going to set her up with one of the junior stylists."

"Nonsense! Can't you see that this woman is virtually screaming for a change. It would be a crime against the world to let her walk out of here looking like that. Call Catherine, she'll need a facial, a manicure, and a bit of color on this hair. I will style her myself."

"But sir, the facial isn't even part of the..."

The man turned to face the woman. He stared, chastising her with a look. The receptionist closed her mouth and nodded. "Yes, sir, I'll go get Catherine," she said leaving the room. Molly instantly loved the man.

"I am Paul, the owner of Mint salon, and you are… ?"

"Molly," she said reaching out and shaking his hand. "Molly Hooper."

"And why are you here, Molly?" he asked, the hairs of his tiny blond mustache sticking out slightly as he smiled.

"I know it sounds cliché, but I want to catch a man."

He laughed lightly, and she couldn't help but join in.

"If that's what you want, Molly," he said lowering his hand to her back as he guided her toward the door. "I will make you irresistible. Trust me."

She left the salon with a beautiful cut that framed her face, and stern instructions to buy something decent to wear before she got home. It was six o'clock when she finally wandered out of the last store with a large white box containing the shortest red dress that she could ever dare herself to wear, and a pair of red heels to match. She could already see eyes straying to her, as men gave her a second look. She could get used to this.

She would visit Sherlock tonight. Like the saying goes, _Best strike while the fire is hot_. Her fire was virtually incandescent.

She showered and laid out her clothes as if she were going to a ball, startling Toby as she danced around her room in just heels and lingerie. She had a collection of lacy ones that she'd bought when she was an engaged woman.

They had sat stuffed in the corner of her drawer all this time, but not anymore. She slipped on the red dress and spun around. The dress flared like a trumpet.

Sherlock had dreamed of her as a man. She would show him how untrue that was. This time she would make him see her.

She slipped on her coat, grabbed her purse, and walked out of the flat heading toward Baker Street. Molly was determined to seduce Sherlock Holmes, or die trying.


	11. Red lipstick

Molly stood on the pavement outside of Sherlock's flat and took a deep breath. She looked fabulous. She felt beautiful. He had criticized her breasts and lips before, but they were flawless.

Her hair was lighter now. Not a complete color change, just a shade more blond than usual. Paul had said that subtlety was the best way to draw attention to herself. Going full blond would only signal how hard she was trying. The wind ruffled her hair. She smoothed it down to frame her face and smiled as she rang the bell twice. She tried hard not to bite her lips.

Sherlock should be walking down the steps by now. Any minute, he would throw open the door and see her. She was wearing her postbox red lipstick. It had sat in her drawer for half a year because she could never bring herself to wear such a bright shade. But those thoughts were of the past. She was a new woman now. Molly could hear movement on the other side of the door. She took off her coat, despite the chill to show off the playful puff of her dress. She was ready.

The door opened, and she found herself staring into the questioning eyes of an older woman. She had white hair streaked with blond, and a sharp face that seemed familiar even though Molly had never seen her before. Perhaps she was one of Mrs Hudson's friends.

"Hello, can I help you?"

"Yes, is Sherlock in?" Molly asked fidgeting a bit. The woman stepped back, and let her inside. Then she lead her up the stairs to Sherlock's flat.

Molly could see that someone had been working on the place. The stairs had a new wooden railing, and there were bags of waste lined up on the landing above, suggesting that cleaning work had been started. She draped her coat over the banister and walked up the stairs. She had vetoed the red nail polish, going instead for a neat French manicure. She ran her fingertips across the rail as she walked carefully up the stairs in her wicked red heels. She clasped her hands as she reached the top, but then she forced her arms down to her sides. She needed to look confident. Yes, confident. Sherlock would be hers tonight.

She walked through the door into the flat, and immediately a white-haired man rose to his feet and stared at her. Molly smiled.

Sherlock was sitting in his own chair, which had been cleaned and set upright again. The room had been cleaned as well, but it had a long way to go before it was the same as it had been.

"Oh!" Sherlock said looking up. "I didn't recognize your footsteps in those high heels."

"Hello Sherlock," she said and bit her lip anyway. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting something important?"

"Don't worry yourself about it. They were just leaving."

The older woman looked at her and then Sherlock before saying, "Who is this? Is she that Irene person that John told us about?"

"Oh no, I'm not..." Molly said blushing to think that she had been mistaken for Irene Adler only to frown as Sherlock said...

"Irene, her? You must be insane."

She ignored the comment and turned toward the woman.

"I'm Molly Hooper," she said reaching out, but it was the white-haired man who stepped forward to shake her hand. Although it was the woman who responded.

"Nice to meet you," she said as the smiling man finally released her grip. The man seemed nice, but Sherlock was in his chair looking amazing. He had shaved and dressed for company. Molly found that she missed the day old beard, but she resolved to see it again by keeping him busy long enough for it to grow back.

"We don't want to keep you if you have company," the old man said to Sherlock. "Dear, I think it best we be on our way."

The woman glared at him, as if she were going to resist, but then she nodded. She leaned over Sherlock's chair and gave him a big kiss on the forehead. "Well, you just call us if you need anything. We're staying at Mycroft's."

"Oh he'll be loving that," Sherlock said rolling his eyes.

"None of your cheek," the woman said slapping him on the shoulder,"...especially not in front of a guest."

"Well, love, I think it's more than time that we got on our way" the older man said wrapping an arm around the woman's shoulders as he led her to the door. "I think we've overstayed our welcome. Goodnight Sherlock."

The woman was frowning, but she let the man lead her to the door. "Call us if you need anything," she said looking back. Sherlock shrugged. The man gave Molly a wink before following the woman down the stairs.

Molly turned back to Sherlock to see him slouch down in his chair, visibly relaxing once he heard the outer door close.

"So, who are they then?" Molly asked whirling a bit so the hem of her skirt spun around her.

"Oh them? They're just my parents."

"Your parents!" she said turning her head to look at the stairs even though they were already gone.

"Don't mind them. They're unimportant. What did you want to talk about tonight, Molly?"

Molly focused on Sherlock. He was sitting up, his wrists resting on the arms of his chair.

"Why do you think I came to talk?" she said daring herself to walk closer.

"Why else would you be here?"

"I'm here because you're here," she said moving beside him, and laying a manicured hand on his shoulder. He looked at it, and then up at her, before turning back to stare at a book that was lying on his lap.

"I've never seen your parents." Molly said running a finger across Sherlock's shoulder. She could feel the tight, strong muscles there.

"Of course you haven't. You're hardly here enough to notice. Even so, their visit isn't a normal occurrence, especially this one."

"This one? What's special about this time?" Molly said moving to stand behind his chair, one hand beside each of his broad shoulders. How easy it would be to circle her arms around him and press him up against her breasts. He was wearing a white shirt. It was nice, although she preferred the purple one. She leaned forward breathing in the scent of his aftershave. He was so sexy.

"This time, they came to apologize."

"Your parents apologized to you? What for?" she said, rubbing her finger against the hair at the back of his neck. She wanted to run her fingers across his scalp. Should she? Would she? Her breathing was so heavy that she hardly heard his response.

"For lying to me. For never telling me that I had a sister."

He flipped the book open revealing a photo of his much younger parents and three children. He was a pretty, curly-haired youth. He was adorable. She imagined herself and Sherlock with their own curly-haired child. Molly leaned over his shoulder to get a better look at the photo, and also to drape her hair over him. "So that's her, that's Eurus?"

"That's what they tell me."

"What? Don't you remember her at all?"

"I think so, in bits and pieces. I remember a river. Some stones. Playing pirates with a light-haired boy with an eyepatch. But, I also remember playing with a dog. A red Irish setter." He stretched out the fingers of his hands, and then rolled them into fists. "I remember loving dogs. The Hemsby beach poisoner and I bonded over our love of dogs. It was chatting about Redbeard that delayed her long enough for the police to arrive. A quite useful delay as she was planning to kill me as soon as we were finished. Now I know that Redbeard was just a figment of my imagination, a dream if you will. How can I trust anything now that such fundamental facts of my own existence have been called into question?"

Molly looked down at Sherlock's big hands. How would they look wrapped around her waist? She wanted to touch him. To have him touch her. She walked around to the side of the chair running her fingers across his back.

He turned his head toward her, looking up into her eyes. "You understand, don't you? As a scientist. Imagine finding out that the data on which you had based your life's work had been fabricated. That everything that you assumed was true was based on conclusions and assumptions that were false to begin with. That is what has happened to me. My life, my career, my entire personality is based on lies that even my own parents conspired to keep me from discovering. I claim to be a detective, someone who sees what others do not, and yet I didn't see this. I don't even know who I am?"

Sherlock's lips were moving. She had always envied his lips. The very curve of them. How dare they be so attractive. Well, now was the time to claim them. A voice in her head said, " _Do it!"_ So she did, falling down into his lap and wrapping her arms around him as she pressed her lips against his. She pushed one hand into his hair, and pulled him against her. Her fingers worried the buttons on the front of his shirt. How many times had she watched them thinking that they might pop from his prancing about, from the heaving of his chest. She rubbed across the fabric feeling the rounded bulge of his pectoral muscles as she lifted his chin to kiss him more deeply.

It took a few moments for her to realize that his hands were dangling awkwardly over the edge of the chair, that his tongue sat limply in his mouth. She pulled back and looked at the surprise in his eyes. Watching as his expression changed from shock to a kind of sad compassion.

She slid off of his lap and rose to her feet. Something was wrong.

He had been talking to her before she had kissed him, but she had been so intent on having him that she hadn't been paying attention what he had said. Something about being lied to by his parents, about not knowing who he was.

Sherlock's face looked more like that curly-headed child than the man she had come to meet. It was shocked, surprised and a little sad. A smear of red lipstick covered his mouth like blood, like an accusation.

She thought back to when she'd entered the room. He had seemed like his old self, indifferent, a bit bored. Then his parents had left, and he had sunk down in his chair. She had been looking straight at him, but she hadn't noticed how his hand had shook. How his face had been lined with stress. She had been watching, but she hadn't been observing how he had clutched the edge of the album in a death grip.

Sherlock had been in pain, and she had ignored it because of her own lust-filled thoughts.

"Sherlock, I… I'm sorry. My timing was off." She took a step back. "You were upset, and I… I guess I wasn't paying attention." His eyes followed her as she moved. She glanced over at the photo album which she had knocked out of his lap. A dark-haired girl stared out of the page with knowing eyes. Molly walked over and picked up the book, closing it, before returning it to Sherlock. He took it.

She could see in her mind's eye now, what she should have done. How she should have listened carefully to him express his doubts. How she should have bent down and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, comforting him. Instead, she had attacked him when he was vulnerable. She had been so intent on finally making him notice her, that she didn't notice when he needed her most. It was the phone call all over again, only this time she was the one ignoring his feelings as she tried to ring a confession from his lips.

"I'm sorry," she said again turning away, tears falling from her eyes. She was stopped by a tugging on her skirt. She turned back to find Sherlock on the edge of his chair. He reached out and clasped her hand. "Let me go, Sherlock." she said cupping her palm against her face to keep the tears from falling on her dress. "I'm selfish. I'm a monster."

"You're my friend." Sherlock said, "and John taught me what that means."

"What is a friend then? Someone who hurts you? Someone who is so focused on their own agenda that they ignore your feelings?"

"No. Someone you would die for. Someone you would live for."

Molly pulled her hand out of his and ran out of the room ignoring him as he called her name. She ran down the stairs grabbing her coat and leaving the building.

Her eyes were filled with tears. Her heart beat sharply in her chest. The sweetness of his words only made the pain hurt worse. Because although she was mortified by what she had done, she was even more upset by what Sherlock had not. He had not kissed her back. He had not held her in his arms. He had not stirred with passion when she had pressed herself against him.

She had thought that if only she were pretty enough, or sexy enough, then everything would change. That Sherlock would see her with new eyes and suddenly turn passionate. She should have known better. This was just paint, gold brushed onto the surface of a broken mug. She wiped the lipstick off of her mouth with the back of her hand, shivering as the harsh wind blew across her wet cheeks cooling her reddened face. She put on her coat, and then started the long walk back home.


	12. 221

Molly woke when the morning sun streamed in through the window and onto her bed. She sat up, tossed the sheet aside, and then groaned at the red spot she found under her.

"Not red again," Molly groaned.

Last night, she had tried to banish the color red from her flat. She had taken off the shoes and the expensive red dress and tossed them into a box which she had shoved into the back of her closet. The lipstick, she had thrown into the trash. And yet despite her efforts, red would not abandon her. She went into the bathroom, pressing against her belly which had begun to cramp.

She should have expected it. Her period always came at the worst possible moment. It hurt, but it was just one more pain to heap on top of the pain of last night's embarrassment.

Sherlock had been vulnerable. He had been unsure. She could clearly see now how alone he had felt, yet he had trusted Molly, relaxing around her as he could not relax around his parents. And what had she done to help him?

The last few months had been so hard for Sherlock. He had almost died several times. John had abandoned him. His family had lied to him. Sherlock must feel truly alone.

Maybe that was why she had felt so drawn to him lately. No, her thoughts were nowhere near so noble. She had wanted Sherlock, and so she had kissed Sherlock. He had not kissed her. Molly feared that she wouldn't be able to face him again. She was facing no one this morning, except her own image in the mirror. She had bags under her eyes and they were still a bit red from her crying.

"Red. Ughhh!"

She showered and dressed in comfortable clothes resolving not to leave the flat ever again. Well, at least not today. She dug into the refrigerator for some yogurt and started the kettle to make some chamomile tea.

The first day of her period she always cramped hard. Molly's first period had come at the age of thirteen. She had been glad to see it, as her friends had already had theirs. The teacher gave her pads enough to last that first week. It was a lucky thing, because her father was too shocked to buy them when she told him. He had looked at her in surprise as if he had expected her to always stay a child.

She was thirty now which meant that she had been having periods for seventeen years. She had read somewhere that a woman had four hundred periods in her lifetime. How many had it been so far? Three hundred and sixty five days in a year, divided by twenty eight, the average length of a woman's cycle. She pulled out a pad of paper and worked it out longhand on the kitchen counter. It was thirteen and a bit more periods every year. Thirteen times a year for seventeen years meant that she had had two hundred and twenty one periods in her lifetime. Two hundred and twenty one. That was more than half the way to four hundred, and she had not yet had a child.

Molly lowered her face into her hands. To think of having to go through this pain every month for her lifetime and never have it come to anything. It had already happened two hundred and twenty one times. Would her four hundred eggs pass away into nothing leaving her with no children? Would she live alone her entire life only to die in an empty flat?

"Two hundred and twenty one?" Molly said aloud suddenly realizing why the number seemed so familiar. It was the same as Sherlock's flat number. Fate was making a joke! Reminding her of the person she wanted. Of the man she could not have.

It was laughable really, expecting him to be overcome with lust just because she'd got a hair cut. It was like in the cinema when a girl takes off her glasses, and suddenly the man who ignored her before asks her out. Sherlock would have laughed at such a story. He would have scorned the man for not seeing her true beauty in the first place.

Sherlock's seeing eyes. They were one of the things that had drawn her to him in the first place, the way that he had seemed to know her with just a look. Then again, there had been so many times when he hadn't seen her. He hadn't realized for example that she was asking him out for coffee … or perhaps he had.

She had assumed that Sherlock was a bit clueless when it came to people. She had assumed that he hadn't noticed that she was propositioning him, but what if he had noticed. Perhaps he had always known what she was doing. Perhaps he had never been interested in her at all. If so, then Tom was right. She had been deluding herself for years. She'd never had a chance with him, and he had known it from the first day that he saw her. It had taken her until last night to see it. The way he hadn't wanted her. The way he had not kissed her back. Molly wiped her eyes.

She had told Sherlock last night that she didn't understand parents apologizing to their children, but that's what her father had done. That last week of his life, he had held her hands in his and apologized for leaving her alone. Is this what he had feared? That she would die childless and alone. And if she did, what would be left in the world of her mother's talents. Who would be left to remember her father's kindness. She had wanted to pass those things on to her own children, to share their stories and pass on their skills. So far that hadn't happened. After her father's death, she had focused on completing her medical degree, and then there was always another goal, and another.

Medicine at first had only been a means to an end. Something to do until she had found a cure for her father's illness. After he had died, she had stayed in medicine because… because that was where she was, that was what she knew.

Now she was alone.

Who would she call if she were arrested by the police? Who would morn her if she died here in the flat? Would anyone even miss her now that she wasn't expected at work? How long would it take someone to find her body? Long enough for her cat to start to eat it perhaps. Cats would do that, waiting less time than a dog would to sample the only available source of meat.

She realized then that she was being maudlin. It often happened on the first day of her menstrual period. She fed the cat anyway, just in case, overfilling his bowl before pouring her tea.

She wasn't really alone. If she went to jail, her friends would come and bail her out. And if she died, someone would find her, and even if Toby had nibbled on her corpse, Sherlock would take him in. He wouldn't have any inhibitions about it. He might even think it was funny.

" _A friend is someone you would die for, someone you would live for."_

That's what Sherlock had said, and it was true. She might have lost her job because she helped Sherlock, but she had known that was a possibility from the start. Why wouldn't she believe that he would do the same for her. He loved her, after all. He had told her so. That meant that if she needed help, he would come. She was sure of it. If she needed him, he would come. Sherlock was her friend.

Molly took a drink of her tea, and then lay down on the floor. She found it didn't hurt so much when she was still.

The child she had been would never have got upset over someone not kissing her. The child she had been would never have feared dying alone. The child she had been would have expected to die by the sword on some adventure, or in a balloon crash, or exploring a crystal filled cave.

When had her life become so boring? When had she become so very still? Had getting a period changed so much about her life? She lay a hand over her womb feeling the way it contracted. It felt hollow.

Toby came over to her then and licked her hand. I suppose it was never too early for him to have a little taste.


	13. An old shoe

Molly woke Monday Morning to the sound of her phone ringing. She reached out, and picked it up without even checking to see who was calling.

"Hello."

"Molly, are you awake?" She sat up, hair matted sloppily against her head.

"John, Morning. Yeah, I'm awake," she said with a yawn.

"Sorry for calling so early, but they've called me into work and the Browns are still on vacation. Would you mind coming over to watch Rosie?"

Molly yawned again. "No, I don't mind." She blinked at the phone to find that it was just past eight A.M.

"Great. Thanks Molly. I'll see you soon," John said before hanging up.

When she arrived at John's house some time later wearing an old striped jumper with her hair pulled back tightly into a ponytail, he was was waiting for her. He pulled open the door at her first ring inviting her into the house. Then he took her coat and purse and hung it up on the rack.

"There's formula in the refrigerator, and some snacks for Rosie. And I've left some money on the table in case you want to order some food for yourself."

"Oh John, you don't need to..."

"It's the least that I can do for calling you out on such short notice." He tilted his head looking closely at her. "Have you done something to your hair? It looks nice."

Molly smiled reaching back to touch her hair. "It's nothing really. I just had it colored."

"It suits you."

Molly was surprised that John had noticed, because she had washed her hair over and over, brushing it straight as she tried to remove all traces of hairspray from her head. Maybe being married made a difference. Maybe he had learned how long it took to do one's hair after having lived so long with his wife, or else had he just learned that it was important to mention such things.

John smiled at her. Then his face slowly changed, and he frowned, his brows knitting together. He looked down and away as he said, "So, you and Sherlock…you've have finally hit it off. That's... great." When he lifted his head, he was smiling broadly, although the smile never quite reached his eyes. "That's really great. Sherlock deserves someone, and I know how he feels about you."

"You do?" Molly said. "How is that?"

"He loves you. I heard him say it. And when he thought you might die, he destroyed a casket with his own hands."

"A casket?"

"Yeah." John said. "I'm glad it's you he's chosen instead of... that is, you'll be good for him."

"It's really not like that, John. We haven't…."

"But, I do wonder if you've really thought this through… being with Sherlock, It's not like being with a normal bloke. That is to say, it can be dangerous being around him."

"What?"

John shook his head. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. Nevermind me."

"John. What is it?"

"I don't mean to interfere. It's just...I think you should be careful letting yourself fall too much into the Holmes influence. You escaped most of it when Moriarty didn't believe that Sherlock liked you, but if you are known to be dating him then you might become a target. In fact, you already have been one. Eurus Holmes was going to bomb your flat, and if she knows who you are, then others might too. Being close to Sherlock can get you all sorts of unwanted attention. It's a whole level above anything you've ever seen before. I know."

"What do you mean by _'a whole level above'_?"

John shook his head "I'm sorry, Molly. I don't know what made me say that. Please just forget it. If you're happy, that's all that's important." John looked at his watch. "Sorry, I have to rush. If you take Rosie out, just text me to say where you've gone. I expect I'll be back late. Thanks again for coming on such short notice. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this, Molly. You're a lifesaver."

He grabbed his bag then, and rushed out of the door.

"No problem," she said as the door closed behind him.

Molly moved to sit on the couch, and then changed her motion to sit on a wooden chair instead. She was cramping again. Rosie sat in her little chair. She had obviously been eating. Now she wanted to get out, so Molly walked over and picked her up, bouncing her up and down on her hip.

Rosie was a beautiful baby. She had a baby's smell. Molly hugged her to her chest. She had imagined a dark haired baby, Sherlock's child. But in truth she didn't care what it looked like. She loved holding a child. She loved the thought of changing their clothes and reading to them. John had thought that she was doing him a favor, but he was doing her one. She needed this. She needed some unconditional love after all that had happened with Sherlock.

When she had first met Sherlock, she wouldn't have imagined that he would be a good father. But despite expectations, Sherlock was excellent with children. She had first seen it at the wedding. The little boy with the rings had adored him. And Sherlock loved little Rosie. He was so sweet with her. It had hurt Molly's heart to see them together when John had finally let him visit her again.

He had called Rosie _'Watson'_ and shook her tiny hand. That's when Molly knew that Sherlock was made to be a father. Why didn't anyone else see it? Why hadn't anyone else realized that becoming a father could end the recklessness and the loneliness that consumed Sherlock's heart. Then again, it hadn't seemed to work on John Watson. He worked and worked and left Rosie behind. Why? He could have requested time off. What was he running from?

Rosie cried out then, reaching for her rattle. Molly reached down and picked it up, wiping it on her shirt before handing it to Rosie. Such a beautiful child. She deserved a father who would spend time with her. She would get to the bottom of this. Once John came home, she would find out what was going on.

* * *

It was after eleven when John arrived home. He apologized profusely for the late hour, and offered to pay for a taxi, but Molly shook her head. She placed two short glasses on the table, filling them each with whisky before placing the bottle on the kitchen table and sitting down.

"What's this?" John asked.

"Sit down. Let's talk."

John stood behind the chair looking down at Molly. "If this is about what I said this morning, Molly, I didn't mean that. I was tired and..."

"It isn't about that. Now sit down...please."

John sat. He looked down at the glass. "I wouldn't have marked you as a whisky drinker."

"I'm not, usually, but you apparently are. I found the bottle in your cabinet."

John made a shy half grin. Then he sat down in the chair and took a drink. Sighing out loud before putting the glass down on the table with a snap. "So Molly, what's all this about?"

"I just wanted to ask you...Why are you abandoning your daughter? What do you have against Rosie?"

"I have nothing against Rosie! I haven't abandoned her.… What are you on about?"

"You're her father, her only parent now. She needs you. You are all she has of family, but you're spending all of your time at work. You are missing some of the most important days of her life. I think you're avoiding her."

"I'm not avoiding her."

"You look at her, and then look away. Do you think that she won't notice that? Children are incredibly insightful about emotions. She's lost her mother. She needs your love more than ever. You are her whole world. Why are you leaving her behind?"

John frowned. "I haven't left her. I haven't gone anywhere. I am right here."

"Yet you leave her with others for weeks at a time."

"Look, Molly. I know that you probably mean well, but you are not a parent, and you don't understand what kind of stress I'm under. It is because of Rosie that I have to be gone so often. I'm a doctor, and I have to work to support her."

"No you don't."

"Of course I do."

Molly tossed a stack of envelopes on the table bound by a rubber band. John picked them up. "What is this?"

"It was for Rosie. I suppose now that it's for you."

"What is it?"

"You don't know?"

"I don't know what?"

"About Mary's investments?"

John pulled out an envelope and opened it. He read the letter carefully. "This is a great deal of money. It's in the name of Mary and Rosie Watson. I don't understand. Where did this money come from?"

"Mary said that it was for Rosie. She said it was her inheritance, but after her parents died, she didn't want to touch it so she invested it. She didn't want to risk cutting into it when times were tight, so she had the statements sent to me since I'm Rosie's godmother. You really didn't know about it?"

"No. But then again, there were a lot of things about Mary that I never knew."

"Do you know why she shot Sherlock?"

John looked up. "Who told you about that?"

"Mrs Hudson. She thought that I already knew. Why would Mary shoot Sherlock? What had he done?"

"Nothing. Sherlock did nothing wrong."

"Then why…?"

John picked up the bottle and poured another glass downing it in one go. Then he poured another.

"John,"

"I told you, Molly. You are better off staying away from the Holmes family."

"The Holmes family? Why? Is Mary related to Sherlock?"

"No, God no. It's just… Mary lied to me."

"Lied about what?"

"Everything. Who she was, where she was born, what she used to do. Mary used to be an assassin. She did things, terrible things. Shooting Sherlock was just... falling back on old patterns. It was something she used to be good at. I shouldn't complain. I used to be a soldier."

"But you didn't hurt Sherlock."

John took another drink and his grin grew wicked. "Didn't I? Did you forget? I put him in the hospital. I hurt him bad. Mary did too, but I don't think she meant anything by it."

"She didn't mean anything by almost killing Sherlock? Why would she do that? They always seemed so friendly with each other, so comfortable. And if you knew that she shot your best friend why didn't you do anything about it?"

"What should I have done? You tell me?"

"You could have left Mary."

"And then where would Rosie be, huh? You accuse me of being a bad father, and then you suggest that I should have left my wife? Abandoning my unborn child?"

"But if she lied to you. If she endangered Sherlock."

"Do you suppose that Sherlock would have been safer if I had kicked Mary out of our house? Do you think that we could just go back to a time before I found out that I had married the wrong woman?" John took another sip. His hand shook. "Everyone always expects too much of me. I don't have all the answers. I never pretended to. Mary and Sherlock were always so clever. Do you think that I didn't know they were smarter than me? They never let me forget it!"

John had raised his voice, and Molly looked over at the door wondering if he would wake the baby.

"I'm not a genius. I'm not important. I'm a good shot, and I used to be an excellent surgeon, but truth be told I'm a rubbish GP because I just don't care enough about my patients. I don't know what Mary saw in me. I don't know why she didn't just leave when we found out who she was. No, that's a lie. I do know why. Mary stayed because she was hoping that I would forgive her… because she thought that was the kind of man I was. She urged me to forgive Sherlock because she felt that if I could forgive him, I could forgive her. And she wanted forgiveness so much, after all she'd been and done, she craved it. That's why she didn't leave. That's why she went to Sherlock's house that Christmas. She was hoping that I would forgive her."

"And did you forgive her?"

"I gave her the Christmas present she wanted, and she gave me Rosie. I don't want to give you the wrong impression. I loved Mary, I still do. But I realized that there was part of her that would never be my wife. There was part of her that was still an assassin. She never let me see her phone. Did you know that? I would offer to go and get her purse, and she would jump up and get it herself just to keep me from seeing it. I began to wonder what she was hiding from me, but it's possible that she wasn't hiding anything. It was just a habit she couldn't break. I started leaving things on my phone to see if she would read it. I flirted with other women."

Molly breathed in, surprised. John smiled and took another drink. Then his lip curved down.

"That's right, I was cheating on my assassin wife. Some part of me wanted her to find out. I think that she did. She told me that I was too good for her, that she forgave me. Although none of that mattered in the end. She died, and the woman I was cheating with was really Sherlock's sister playing a game. I should have known that nothing I did would matter. I'm like an old shoe thrown to a pack of dogs. They like to play with it. Fighting over it to prove how powerful they are, but win or lose, as a prize I'm still basically worthless."

"That's not true, John."

"Isn't it? I work hard to make money to pay for a home for my daughter, and now you tell me that I don't need to because Mary left Rosie money to support her. Money that she probably got by killing someone." He took another drink. "Did you know that Mycroft Holmes offered to pay my bills after Mary died? Fucking Mycroft Holmes felt sorry for me!

"And Sherlock. I never asked him, but I'm sure he would have offered to help her as well if I had listened to him. Sherlock never told me the whole truth either. He told me that he needed a flatmate for the money? How could that be true when he wore nine-hundred pound shirts? I hadn't lived there a week before he offered to pay for my groceries. Everything is a game with them. I just get tired sometimes of being the ball."

"John, I don't think that's the way it is at all. Not with Sherlock at least. If you only knew what he went through to keep you safe when Moriarty..."

"Perhaps, but Moriarty wouldn't even have known me if it wasn't for Sherlock. I was a pawn. I still am one. I don't want that kind of life for my daughter."

Molly took a sip of her drink. She imagined Rosie being kidnapped. Her hand shook.

"I'm sorry about the way I acted this morning, Molly. Trying to warn you off. It's really too late. You're already in. Eurus has already used you against Sherlock. But seeing how upset he was when he found out that you were in the game, it just reminded me of the difference between the way Sherlock sees you and the way he sees me."

"The difference? What difference?"

"When Sherlock jumped off the roof at Bart's hospital, he lied to me about his death, but he told you the truth. He gave you the one thing that he never gave me."

"And what is that?"

"Respect."

John finished his glass and then rose to his feet. He picked up the bottle and carried it over to the sink, putting it back in the cabinet. Then he took Molly's glass and drank the last of it before putting both glasses on the side of the sink.

"Well, if you don't mind letting yourself out, I'm going to bed. It's been a long day, and I've drunk more than enough. Goodnight, Molly." John said leaving the kitchen and heading down the hall.

"Goodnight, John."

Molly sat in silence for a long moment before gathering her things, and leaving John and Rosie alone.


	14. Tea among the towers

Molly was feeding Toby the last of the cat food when a knock came at the door. She opened it to see a terribly well-dressed young woman with dark hair standing there.

"The car is waiting," The woman said.

"Waiting for what?"

"To take you to your tea with Mr. Mycroft Holmes."

"Oh!" Molly said.

She had completely forgotten the invitation casually mentioned by Sherlock's older brother while she was suffering from a terrible hangover. He had mentioned tea on Tuesday which Molly supposed must be today. The days ran together now that she didn't have work to define them.

The woman stared at her expectantly. "Will you be long?" she asked.

"Just a minute," Molly said closing the door on the woman and rushing into the bedroom to change out of her kitten pajamas.

She was in the bathroom brushing her hair when she remembered John's words. _'Y_ _ou should be careful letting yourself fall too much into the Holmes influence'_. And yet here she was taking a car to see Mycroft Holmes after he had broken into her flat only last week. Perhaps she should be wary.

On the other hand, it was several days until payday, and she wasn't sure that they would pay her at all. The dress and shoes had been expensive, and a free meal would be nice. She picked up her purse and put on her mother's scarf before following the woman out and down the stairs to the black car.

The woman sat in front leaving Molly alone in the spacious back seat. She contemplated the buttons on the bench in front of her, but unsure whether they would open an intercom or launch missiles on Cuba, she refrained from touching them. She looked out of the window, watching the city around her. They passed the sign announcing that her flat would soon become another Shad Sanderson Bank. She would have to move soon. She hadn't even begun looking for another place yet.

As the car wended its way through the traffic to the heart of London, Molly wondered why Mycroft Holmes wanted to see her. Sending a car seemed a bit dramatic. He could have phoned. She was getting an inkling of what John had warned her about. Everything about the Holmes family seemed a bit over the top. This was confirmed when instead of a restaurant or a hotel, the car drove into a car park and climbed through all of the levels to stop on the roof. The well-dressed woman opened the car door and let her out before leading her up a metal stair, through a gate, and up another flight of stairs until they reached a windowed door leading to a glass-lined walkway.

The walkway was suspended over a street. She watched as the cars drove below her. The door in front of her opened then, and two men entered pushing a trolley. They unloaded a round table and set it in the middle of the walkway. Then they covered it with a table cloth and began to dress the table after setting two chairs down beside it. Molly watched as places were set with white china plates and silverware. There were even flowers. It was surreal.

The woman motioned for her to sit and then walked out through the glass door where they had entered. The attendants rolled in a steaming tea tray, before leaving her alone, in a glass box high above the streets of London.

Was this what life was like for Mycroft Holmes, living above it all? She literally was above the city watching as cabs passed below her. A moment later he strode into the hall, pulled up a chair, and took his folded napkin off of the plate to place on his lap.

"Good Morning, Miss Hooper. So glad that you could join me for breakfast."

"Good Morning. What is this place we are in?"

"Simply a secure location for our meeting. I am a busy man. I take my meals when I can. The glass is bulletproof, and I thought that you might like the view."

The other door opened again and the two attendants entered. One filled the glasses with water and set out eggs and fruit and fresh pastries of many different styles. The other made two cups of tea and set them before them.

Molly picked up her tea and took a sip. It had sugar and milk in just the right proportions. She sighed, and the attendant nodded before placing the teapot on the table and leaving with the other attendant close behind.

Mycroft Holmes put food on his plate, and began to eat, so Molly reached out and took a croissant with an artful swirl of chocolate on it. She took another sip of tea and they ate. Just when she thought that they would eat the entire meal in silence, Mr Holmes wiped his mouth with his napkin and began speaking.

"I was surprised, Miss Hooper, when the hospital said that you had not been into work for a week. Is something wrong?"

"I was suspended from my job. I am surprised that you haven't heard about it."

"I have been very busy this week. Would you mind telling me why you were suspended?"

"It's no secret. They did it because of the bodies I loaned Sherlock. That, and for falsifying the records. I did change them so… I suppose they had cause."

"And when exactly did this suspension occur?"

"On the day Sherlock called me. The day he said… you know. You were there. You told me you were."

"So, only a few hours before the call, you found out that you had to leave your job."

"Yes."

"What a curious coincidence." Mycroft said, his eyebrows narrowing as he stared at her. "This suspension. What circumstances led to it? Did you have warning that it was to occur?"

"No, not at all. An inspection team had come when I was away from work."

"And it happened on that day, that day precisely."

"What are you getting at? Do you think it is not a coincidence?"

"The universe is rarely so lazy."

"Then what caused it?"

"Not what, but who. I believe that my sister may have influenced the timing of the inspection so that you would be upset. Then she coerced Sherlock into forcing a confession from you. I should have guessed that she would stack the deck against us."

"You think that your sister got me suspended?"

"There is a strong possibility of it being true. I will have to look into it further."

Molly sat back in her chair, and crossed her arms. This must have been what John had meant by another level. Molly was starting to get angry. She remembered Sherlock's sad expression when he talked of being lied to. Mycroft Holmes had known everything, and he had told Sherlock nothing.

"Do you want me to fix it for you?"

"Fix what?"

"I can get your suspension reversed. I have influence with the board of directors."

"You're offering to get me my job back."

"Yes."

"No."

"No?"

"No. I don't need your help. I will deal with this on my own."

"I don't think you understand, Miss Hooper. It was very likely my sister who caused this inconvenience, and I would like to make amends by undoing what she did."

"Cleaning up her messes?"

"Yes."

"That's what your role is then? To clean up after your siblings?"

"I take care of them?"

"Do you? Where was your care when Sherlock was dying of drugs in his flat? Where was your care when he was beaten? I saw the marks. He'd been beaten with a pipe and a chain."

"I did what I could to get him out without disrupting MI5's operations."

"And so you let him be tortured. I thought that you were supposed to be watching over him."

"Sherlock is one of my most talented operatives."

"He's your brother."

"Yes, Sherlock is _my_ brother Miss Hooper, and I know how to deal with him."

"And you think that lying to him about the death, no the existence of a sister was good for him."

"Sherlock was psychologically damaged by the incident, we all thought it best..."

"To treat him like a child? When would you consider him old enough to know about his sister? At Forty? Fifty? Did you ever plan to tell him?"

"I was monitoring his mental health."

"Really? So did you miss the drugs that he was killing himself with, or did you think that wasn't enough of a sign of his mental distress."

"Sherlock didn't need to know about Eurus. We were unsure of how it would affect his mental state."

"Did you consider how it would affect his mental state to realize that his closest family have been lying to him for years, decades even? You were treating him like an experiment, like a test subject. Is it any wonder that he didn't trust you? You never trusted him."

"I hardly think that it is your role to tell me what is acceptable in my family."

"Someone needs to tell you that what you are doing is wrong. Monitoring your brother, controlling your brother. Did you ever consider trusting him, showing him your love? Family are supposed to be people you can trust. Did you withhold this information for his sake, or for your own."

"I'm sorry, Miss Hooper, but you have no idea what it is like to be responsible for curbing two of the most destructive minds in England."

"And you have no idea how much your own jealousy at being forced to take care of your siblings has turned you into a bitter, spiteful man."

Mycroft glared down his nose at Molly, anger evident on his face. Then he calmed himself and took a sip of his tea.

"Miss Hooper, I may have made mistakes in my handling of my brother. In fact, I know I have done so more than once. But please do not mistake my firmness as an absence of care. I care about Sherlock a great deal. If I have erred, it is in believing that things would turn out alright. As you wrote in your story,

 _'I raised the icicle sword to the sun hoping that melting it would wash the blood from my hands, but the stains remained.'_ "

"You read my story?" Molly said, blushing at the man quoting her childhood tale.

"It was a very evocative image. I think we all had dreams of our future that didn't pan out as we expected. Don't you agree, Miss Hooper? Ah, my assistant informs me that my ride is here. If you will excuse me. Feel free to finish your meal. Good day, Miss Hooper."

And with that he rose to his feet. Mycroft dropped the napkin onto the table, and with a nod, turned and left through the door that the woman held open for him. Molly watched through the window as a helicopter landed. He climbed up the steps to the roof and hunched as he rushed toward it. The woman followed, climbing in beside him. Then they flew up and away over the tall, glass towers of London.


	15. A toy heart

The driver offered to take Molly back to her flat, but she couldn't stand the thought of sitting at home alone, so she asked him to take her to Baker Street. She did feel a bit anxious about seeing Sherlock again, but at this time of day, Sherlock was likely out on a case. She really wanted to see Mrs Hudson. She was in Real Estate. She might be able to help her find a new place to stay.

Molly rang the bell and was surprised when Sherlock answered. He was wearing a bright blue shirt and a child carrier holding little Rosie Watson. Rosie turned her head and babbled at her. She was almost too big to fit in the carrier now, her arms and legs waved back and forth as if she wanted to climb out. Molly looked up into Sherlock's face afraid that she might see anger or distress in his eyes, but he seemed pleased to see her.

"Molly!" he said. "Just what we need, someone else to help with our experiment. Come inside."

Molly followed Sherlock up the narrow steps. Rosie looked over his shoulder at her. Then she dropped her head down before looking at her again. She was playing peek-a-boo, and she giggled as Molly blew a kiss to her before hiding her face again.

Sherlock unfastened the carrier then and let Rosie out, sitting her on the floor in front of his chair. On the carpet was a ring of plush toys with odd shapes. It took Molly several minutes before she recognized one of the plush dolls as being a stuffed model of the large intestine, with eyes.

Sherlock sat in his chair facing Rosie and picked up a large anatomy book. He opened the book flipping through the color photos showing the inside of the abdomen, stopping on a giant image of a dissected spleen. He pointed to the photo and then out to the stuffed toys.

"Alright Watson," he said. "Where is the spleen?" Rosie sat with her hands on her lap looking up at Sherlock. He pointed to the page again and said distinctly "Spleeeen."

The baby clapped her hands and giggled.

"Come now, Watson. You have to learn sometime. Your father is a doctor after all. Molly! You do it. Give her an example to follow. Now Watson, watch closely. Molly, where is the spleen?"

Molly looked around at the toys. It took her a while to recognize what they were because she wasn't used to seeing stuffed internal organs. One was a stomach. One a heart. One looked like a ghost? No, it was a uterus. Only Sherlock would think of buying organ toys for the baby. Molly thought that they were some of the cutest things in the world, besides Rosie that is. She picked up a brain and looked closely at the folds stitched into it.

"Oh Molly, don't be a _bad_ example."

"Perhaps if you showed her a picture that wasn't dissected. Those pictures show the internal structure, not the whole organ."

"Good point," Sherlock said turning back to a page that showed the entire abdominal cavity with with the organs intact. He pointed to the spleen on the right of the page. "Alright Watson, give me the spleen. No, that's the heart. See the aortic arch? I know that there are eyes on it, but can't you see the curvature is all wrong. Try again."

Just then there was the sound of a key in the lock. Molly turned expecting to see Mrs Hudson, but the footfalls on the stairs were quicker and heavier. Sherlock sat up straighter at the sound turning to face John as he entered the flat.

"Oh Hello Molly, I didn't expect to see you here." John said with a smile. "Hello, Sherlock." John said nodding in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock swallowed and glanced down. Then John caught sight of the anatomy book and jumped forward to take it from Sherlock's hands.

"Good God, Sherlock what are you showing Rosie, dissected corpses? She'll have nightmares!" He closed the book and put it on the table. Then he walked over to stand beside his daughter who was on her feet. "Come now Rosie, it's about time for us to go home."

"She can stay for a while if you like," Sherlock said one hand clutching Rosie's back as she held onto his knee in an attempt to stand, the other arm was wrapped firmly around the plush model of a human heart. "She's really no trouble."

"It's probably best if we go. I'm off for the rest of the week, so I shouldn't need to bring her over again."

Molly stared at John, watching the way he avoided eye contact with Sherlock. His voice was brisk and sharp. She hadn't noticed before the way that John kept his distance from Sherlock. Picking up Rosie by her shoulders to prevent himself from touching Sherlock's hands around her waist. John was avoiding contact with Sherlock. If she could see it, then Sherlock must feel it like a slap across the face.

Mrs Hudson arrived then, trudging slowly up the stairs hands filled with bags from the market. She smiled when she saw them all together.

"John, Molly, good morning. I just went out to get some applesauce for little Rosie.

She marched into the kitchen and began putting away the food she had in her bag. John turned toward her and frowned. "Are you sure that you should be using that refrigerator for the baby's food, Mrs Hudson. We don't know what's in there."

"Oh it's alright, John. He stopped putting body parts in the refrigerator years ago. And this one has never had them in it. I replaced the old one last Christmas. Hadn't you noticed?"

John glanced back at Sherlock, who looked away. Rosie leaned against John's chest and thrust the heart toy into her mouth. He looked down at her.

"Well Rosie, we have a long walk ahead of us, so you need to put that down." John tried to take the toy heart out of Rosie's arms, but she held it tightly crying out loudly. She kicked hard against his abdomen, and screamed with all the air in her lungs as he tried to pull the toy away.

"Rosie sure has her father's temper!" Mrs Hudson said.

"John, she can keep the toy if she likes. I don't mind."

"She has plenty of toys at home. She doesn't need to take your things as well. Now put that down, Rosie!" he said finally succeeding in taking the heart from her hands. Rosie screamed in protest, pushing away from her father and almost throwing herself out of John's arms. The sight was so distracting that it took Molly a moment to realize that her phone was ringing. She stepped out into the stairwell to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Miss Hooper, is that you? This is Paul from Mint Salon."

"Oh Maestro Paul! How are you?"

"Not very well, actually. I remember you mentioning knowing the detective, Sherlock Holmes. Well you see I have a problem."


	16. The Lost Tiara

It didn't take much to talk Sherlock and John into coming with her to the salon. A new case. A chance for Sherlock to be brilliant. A diversion for John. A hair salon was unlikely to be very dangerous, so Rosie went along as well, especially when Molly agreed to carry her in the belly pack.

John and Sherlock's distance worried Molly. It seemed John trusted Sherlock too little, and Sherlock trusted John too much, yet both of them were still up for an adventure, and so she led them through the glass door of the Mint Salon hoping that a little mystery might bring them together.

She walked up to the counter to find the same haughty receptionist that she had met before. The woman looked her over sneering at little Rosie in a way that made Molly start to steam.

"We are here to see Maestro Paul. He's expecting us," Molly said.

"I will call and see if he is available," the woman said politely enough, although her manner strongly implied that he would not be available.

John stood in the middle of the room, hands behind his back, as if he didn't know what to do in such a place. Sherlock strode around the room looking at everything. He paused at a row of glass shelves and examined the bottles of expensive shampoo.

"Looking for a change?" John said with a smile. Sherlock ignored him.

The receptionist put down the handle of the phone and frowned. "Come this way," she said walking around the counter and leading them into a door to the right. Sherlock rushed ahead, John on his heels, leaving Molly and Rosie to bring up the rear.

The salon had walls of orange and mint green. A red rug went down the center forming a long hallway. On either side there were rooms half hidden by walls of frosted glass pattered with Irises.

They looked through the carved forms of flowers at rows of sinks and hair dryers, alcoves containing pedicure and manicure equipment and silver shelves stacked with white towels.

Further in were small salons, each with a chair and a mirrored wall. The woman opened a door with a large red number five on the front and led them into a salon walled in orange and fuchsia.

Maestro Paul was standing in the room, wearing navy trousers and an aqua shirt with a navy stripe. He smiled at Molly and looked at them each in turn before focusing on the baby.

"Why who is this?" he asked.

"This is Rosie Watson," Molly said, and I've brought her father, John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes with me.

"Wonderful!" he said. "Thank you for coming on such short notice." Paul walked over and checked to see that the door was fully closed before pushing aside a curtain and leading them into a small office tastefully appointed in mint green and pale beechwood. Sherlock visibly relaxed as he passed into the room, as if the last one's color scheme had personally offended him.

"So Maestro..." Sherlock began.

"Please call me Paul."

"Paul, when did you first notice that the item was missing."

"What? But I haven't told you that anything was missing."

"You called Molly to ask her to bring me here, so obviously there has been a crime. The way that you checked the door suggests that you suspect someone who works here of being involved. Everything in this room is neat and in order except that picture which is tilted to one side. A wall safe, I suppose. It is ajar because you have checked it recently. You didn't straighten it because you were preoccupied, with... what? A theft obviously. So please, answer my question, when did you first notice the item was gone?"

John smiled at Sherlock. Sherlock noticed and stood a bit taller.

"You are right, it is a theft, and I do suspect someone here was involved because I noticed it missing just two hours ago."

"And the item?"

"A diamond tiara belonging to a countess, I don't want to reveal names, but she is going to a ball and I was commissioned to design a hairpiece for her to wear with it.

The tiara was delivered at seven fifteen this morning and placed in the safe. There were deliveries and clients that took up my time, but I decided to take a look at it before lunch..."

"...but it was gone. Someone who works here must have taken it. Obviously So has anyone left the building."

"Some clients did, but none of the workers. It will be lunch time soon. If I ask them to stay..."

"Then they would know that you were onto them," John said.

"Needless to say our reputation will be tarnished if this tiara is not recovered."

"You said that there were deliveries. Could one of the delivery men have taken it?" John asked.

"No." Paul said. "None of the delivery men came further than the lobby, and I was watching the entire time."

"It wasn't a delivery man," Sherlock said. "The thief knew that the tiara was here. They knew where the safe was. It must still be here somewhere. Who on your staff knows the combination?"

"Only me and my partner Oscar. But Oscar is in Milan."

Sherlock examined the desk, pulling out the drawer. "Did you possibly have the combination written down."

"Well, yes. I have a terrible memory for numbers."

"Where?"

Paul reached into the drawer and lifted a pencil holder. "There's a piece of paper. It's right under this pad. Now where has it got to?"

"Anyone here might have seen you search for the combination. But I don't think that they would have risked taking the tiara past you while you were standing in the lobby."

"We can do a search."

"They would certainly notice that," John said.

"And given the speed and efficiency of the theft, there are most likely others involved."

"So you think the thief plans to pass it on to someone else?" John said. "We need to make sure that no one leaves the building."

"Molly," Sherlock said. "Go to the lobby and watch the doors. If you see anyone leaving, text me."

"Alright," Molly said.

She walked out of the room and through the bright salon, until she was in the lobby once again. The snotty receptionist ignored her, which she thought was an improvement.

Rosie wanted to climb down. She grabbed Molly's hair, but Molly was watching the doors, so she paced back and forth singing quietly to calm the child.

The receptionist narrowed her eyes at Molly, and she stared back, willing to believe that the annoying woman was a thief, but then Rosie threw her rattle down on the floor, and Molly knelt down to pick it up. It was then that she noticed the men outside.

As she knelt on the floor, Molly could see two men standing on the other side of the street. Although they were wearing long coats, Molly could tell that one of them had a gun, and they were heading toward the door of the salon.

Staying low, Molly rushed around to the other side of the counter and knelt down leaning against the counter with Rosie close to her chest. The receptionist sneered down at her and started to complain until the door slammed open and the men with guns walked in. The woman screeched in alarm, but the men ignored her, passing through the door into the salon.

Molly urgently texted Sherlock...

 **DANGER men with guns coming!**

Molly peeked around the counter to see that the lobby was empty. She rose to her feet considering leaving by the front door, but not knowing if there were more men outside, she decided the back door would be best.

The receptionist was still crying out loudly in alarm.

"They had guns!" she said.

Molly grabbed the receptionist's hand, pulled her across the room and out the back door.

"Who were those men?" the woman screamed.

"I don't know, but we need to get out of here right now."

Molly led her down the steps of the loading dock and out of the alley to the street. Rosie's eyes were wide, but she made no noise. She seemed to sense that something important was happening. Calm in the face of danger, that's what Sherlock had said of John. It would be true of his daughter as well.

Molly pulled the woman behind her as they walked briskly through an alleyway. She looked back once, and then walked into the crowds of the street. She walked a block until she reached a cafe. Then she pulled the woman inside, sitting the dazed receptionist in a chair near the door before pulling out her phone and dialing 999.

Molly stared out of the window and calmly said, "Hello, I'd like to report a robbery in progress."


	17. Family

The sounds of the busy cafe at lunchtime were incongruous with the feelings of panic that Molly felt in her gut. Two men with guns had barged into the salon, presumably to retrieve the diamond tiara. Sherlock and John were there. Perhaps they had been shot. The police had been notified, but they were holding her on the line in case they needed further information.

The snotty receptionist was distracted. She was staring out of the window, peering around the corner, trying to see the salon. She turned her head sharply when she heard the sound of sirens, and then after a minute they watched them pass, two police cars going toward it.

The woman stood up, but Molly put out a hand to keep her from going outside. The people on the street walked by oblivious to the drama that was happening doors down from where they stood.

"Yes, good bye," Molly said hanging up the phone. "We are to stay here. They're sending an officer to talk to us."

More cars drove past, and Rosie started to fuss. It was only then that Molly realized that she had left the diaper bag in Paul's office. Rosie's diaper was soaked through.

A police woman walked through the door looking around. Molly stepped forward and waved at her.

"Ms Hooper?"

"Yes, that's me."

"You witnessed the robbery?"

Rosie was starting to fidget now. Molly bounced her a bit and stuck the rattle in her hand. She wondered if Lestrade was around. She asked the policewoman, "Who is in charge of this investigation?"

"I'm sorry Madam?"

"I just want to know who is in charge. Could you please tell me? Is there an inspector assigned to this case?"

"Just a moment, I'll check."

Lestrade would know what to do. She only needed to tell him that Sherlock and John were inside. The receptionist was still staring out of the window. Molly realized that she didn't even know the woman's name.

"Inspector Dimmock is in charge," the officer says. "Is that relevant?"

Molly sighed. She needed to get Rosie changed. She took the receptionist's arm and pulled her closer to the officer. "This woman works in the Mint Salon. She saw the gun men, and she can tell you the salon's layout and who is currently inside. Can you make sure that she gets to the inspector?"

"Yes Madam," The officer said standing at attention. She pulled out her radio and led the receptionist away.

Molly followed them out of the door, but once outside, she turned away from the scene. Rosie had started to cry. They walked quickly through the crowd, away from the danger. She stopped at a hotel entrance and asked the valet to hail her a cab. Soon she and Rosie were on their way to Baker Street.

Molly had considered going to John's flat, but she didn't have a key, and her own place was completely free of baby supplies. Mrs Hudson, however, kept an entire basket of baby things at Baker Street for when Rosie came by, and she had said that today she would be at home baking a brioche.

They were halfway there when she got a text from John.

 _ **Where is Rosie?**_

Relieved she texted back.

 **We're in a cab on the way to Baker Street.**

Moments later, a reply came.

 _ **Good. Stay there.**_

 **Where are you?** She texted back only to get the reply.

 _ **Busy!**_

She waited for another message to come, but none did. She wondered what was happening. Had they got out safely? Were they hiding somewhere, waiting for the gun men to pass. The cab arrived, and Molly paid. Mrs Hudson answered the door and then stepped out to put an arm around her shoulder and pull her inside.

"Oh dear, you're back early. What's wrong?" She said.

Molly rushed inside not realizing that both she and Rosie were crying.

* * *

After Rosie had been fed, changed, and laid down on Mrs Hudson's bed for a nap, Molly told Mrs Hudson everything over tea.

"You did the right thing dear," Mrs Hudson said. "Rosie has no business being around all that."

"But I left Sherlock behind."

"You were able to warn him, and he's with John. They'll be fine as long as they're together."

"I'm not so sure."

"Now Molly, things would have been much worse if John had needed to worry about little Rosie getting hurt. He'll be feeling much better knowing that she is safely out of this."

"But how long will it take? Should I call him?"

"Heavens no, dear. You might reveal their position."

"You sound like you've been in this kind of situation before."

"Well, my husband did get into a few scrapes from time to time. A woman has to know when to get out of the way. And now that little Rosie is here, we need to be extra careful. Those boys couldn't take losing her, and neither could I."

"Did you never have any children, Mrs Hudson?"

"Please, Molly. Call me Martha."

"Well, have you, Martha?"

"Had children? No. I would have liked to, but … it was complicated."

"Please, tell me."

Mrs Hudson poured herself another cup of tea before she spoke. "Well, I don't know if you'd heard, but my former husband ran a drugs cartel. He was ... a very bad man, very controlling. I knew nothing about this when we got married, but afterwards. It became evident that he was not the kind of person who should be trusted around children. Despite that, he always wanted a child, a boy to carry on his business. He was always going on about it. Talking about building an empire. I put him off at first, going on about my figure. I was a dancer you see. But after a while, those things didn't stop him anymore. He became... insistent."

"And yet you never got pregnant?"

Mrs Hudson sat very still. "One week when he was away on an extended business trip, I checked myself into the hospital and had my uterus removed. I told him that I had got appendicitis and they had done an emergency appendectomy. He never found out why we couldn't have a child."

Molly stared at Mrs Hudson. Her hand fell instinctively over her belly.

"Now don't be sad for me, child. I don't regret it. I'm not alone. Sherlock is like the son I never had. Better in fact, because he never knew my husband. And John, he's like a son as well, although he is a bit of a problem one. For an old woman like myself, I think I've done pretty well. You see, when you get to my age you realize that birth has nothing to do with who your real family is. Family is who you love, and Sherlock and John and Rosie and you are my family. Oh dear! It's time to check the brioche."

Mrs Hudson rose to her feet, turning away to check the oven. So she didn't see Molly reach up and wipe away her tears.


	18. Homecoming

It was six thirty in the evening before Molly heard anything about Sherlock and John. A text came from Sherlock saying that they were on their way home. Mrs Hudson insisted that they take sandwiches upstairs. So Molly carried Rosie up and let her play with the stuffed organ toys while she cleaned the table and put out plates. She gave Rosie a bit of the fresh brioche which she gummed happily.

Molly's heart lifted when she heard the door open downstairs. She rose to her feet waiting for them to reach the top of the stairs. John came in first. He smiled down at his daughter, who was hugging the stuffed heart again, and then he walked up to Molly and kissed her hard on the lips.

"Thank You," he said. "Thank you for taking care of Rosie." Then John bent down and picked Rosie up, swinging her through the air before holding her in his arms.

Sherlock swaggered in a moment later. He was smiling. He took off his gloves and placed them in his pocket. "That was quite an invigorating case," he said. "The men were part of an international diamond smuggling ring. They'd had their eye on that Tiara for months, but there had been no way to reach it until it was taken to the salon to be fitted into a hairpiece. They thought it would be easy."

John said,"They bribed one of the hairdressers..."

"Stylists!" Sherlock corrected.

"Sorry...They bribed one of the _stylists_ to take the tiara and toss it in with the dirty laundry. Only they didn't expect the theft to be discovered so soon."

"The accomplice called them when she recognized me. Apparently she had read a story about Culverton Smith and figured out that we were there to find the tiara. So she told them not to come. She didn't expect that they would march in with guns."

"Good job alerting the police, Molly. They came before the men could get away," John said.

"The presence of the police did, however, turn a simple robbery into a hostage situation," Sherlock said as he hung up his scarf and coat.

"Paul was none to happy about that. He had a cool head though, hiding us in the office and letting himself be captured."

"It gave us time enough to come up with a plan to take them out one by one."

"I took them out!" John said.

"I got the first one, mostly," Sherlock said. "But you were excellent, John. That shot... around the doorway, through a glazed window, and into his hand making him drop the gun. It was an amazing! Then a bit of running, one good punch, and it was over."

"Except for the hours and hours of paperwork."

"Dimmock is so annoying! He wouldn't let us leave until everything had been gone over a million times! If this had been Lestrade's case..."

"Sherlock, you can't expect to pick and chose which police inspector is assigned to the case."

"Why not? You can choose your stylist."

Sherlock and John smiled at each other then, and started to laugh. Molly couldn't help but smile.

"Come now boys, you must be hungry. I made you some sandwiches," Mrs Hudson said while pouring them both tea.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. You are a life-saver," John said.

Sherlock draped an arm around her shoulder and kissed her forehead.

"You are a wonder," he said. Then he picked up his tea and stuffed some of her brioche into his mouth.

Molly breathed in easily for the first time that day. This was the way life at Baker Street should be. Sherlock being fussed over by Mrs Hudson. John holding tightly to his daughter who was mouthing the toy heart again. They were happy, like a family should be. Her eyes began to water, and she wondered if there was a limit to how often a person could cry in one day.

"Are you all right?" John asked.

"Just relieved," she said shaking her tears away. "After we left, I didn't know if you had been hurt or not. I was worried."

"We're fine," Sherlock said. "Your text made all the difference."

"Yes Molly," John said. "Your quick thinking saved the day. I hate to think of what could have happened if you hadn't left when you did."

"I just knew that I wanted to get Rosie and myself as far away from those men as I could."

"Thank You," John said. "It meant a lot to me to know that Rosie was safe. Not everyone would do that. Not everyone would leave me behind to keep her safe."

John glanced over at Sherlock and it was back, the heaviness between them. Sherlock frowned, and John turned to face Rosie who held tightly onto the stuffed heart. Molly wondered then if Sherlock would have left John behind to take care of Rosie if he had been in her place. Probably not. He would probably have given her to the arrogant receptionist while he went after the criminals. The woman would have argued with him. She would have been captured, and so would Rosie, and… no, it's best not to think about what might have been.

"Well, this time, we really should be off." John said holding Rosie tightly to his side. "It has been a busy day, and I for one could do with an early night. Good night Mrs Hudson, Molly. Goodbye Sherlock."

John walked out of the room glancing back at Sherlock before going down the stairs. Mrs Hudson followed him, and they could hear the sound of goodbyes as Mrs Hudson helped Rosie on with her coat and let them out of the flat.

The room felt darker after they had left. It was quiet except for the ticking of the clock. Sherlock stared at the empty doorway, food and tea forgotten.

Molly bent down to pick up the toys strewn across the floor only then realizing that Rosie and John had taken the heart with them.


	19. Proposition

The clock ticked in the quiet room. Sherlock stood staring at the door, lost in thought. Molly watched him. He looked sad. Suddenly she remembered... so many years ago...

.

" _I apologize Moll. I apologize for leaving you alone."_

" _Dad, no. You're going to pull through. There's every chance that you can survive..."_

" _Love, please… I'm sorry."_

" _Don't talk that way, Dad. I'm going to cure you. I've been studying and there are things they can do..."_

" _Don't put that burden on yourself, Moll. Everyone dies. No doctor can stop it from happening. When your mother died, for a long time I didn't know what to do with myself. But you, Molly. You are the best thing that your mother and I ever made. You are the most wonderful person, and I hope someday that you will find someone who will understand what a marvel you are."_

 _._

Molly covered her eyes with her fingertips. She pulled them away to find them wet.

"Sherlock, Sherlock. Can I ask for another favor?"

Sherlock looked up then, noticing her. "Yes, Molly. What's wrong?"

"Can you please… give me another hug?"

Sherlock looked closely at her, then he walked across the room to stand in front of her.

She wiped her eyes, then looked up at his neck. She didn't think that she could take looking into his eyes. She swayed toward him, and his hands touched her shoulders lightly. They slid down her back pulling her closer as he stepped forward.

Her hands slid around the smooth, narrow waist of his suit, then she turned her head to the side pressing herself tightly against his chest. He cradled her in his arms, and she forgot everything for a minute. She forgot about her job, and John, and the distance between them. She forgot about Saturday night, and the robbery, and Sherlock's parents. She only thought about her longing for a home, and love, and the warmth of being in someone's arms. She felt safe.

He held her, until the clenching feeling in her chest was gone, and she stepped back out of his arms. She looked up then, and his face held such a soft look of compassion. She'd never seen such a look on his face before. She reached up and touched his cheek.

Sherlock had changed since his return. Before he had been cold and hard like glass. His words had been sharp and bitter. He lashed out in anger like a small animal cornered in a cage. Now, when he looked at people, he saw their pain. He saw hers, perhaps for the first time.

She smiled up at him. "Thank You, Sherlock. I needed that."

Then she turned away and walked toward the door. "I had better get off home. I just remembered that I never bought any food for Toby. He'll be missing me."

"I can give you what you want, Molly."

"Cat food? A hug? You already did."

"A child."

She turned back to face him. "That's what you want, isn't it? You want to have my child."

"How could you...?"

"Molly please. The hand on your womb. The references to time. Your birthday. The red dress. It was more than obvious."

Molly shook her head. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. It was just... a momentary fancy. A stray thought. Please forget it."

"I don't mind. We could do it, if you want to. I think that you would make a great mother, Molly."

"Are you… are you offering to… father my child?"

"It's what you want, isn't it?"

Molly's heart beat faster. "Yes."

"Then yes, that is what I am offering."

"Does that mean...Are you saying that you would… with me?" Molly took a step closer. She looked up into his grey-green eyes.

"You told me before that we could come to an… arrangement."

Molly smirked. She imagined evenings after cases. John and Rosie would go back home, and she would stay, sliding across the sheets of Sherlock's bed to hold him close. She sucked in a breath.

"Is that what you want?" Sherlock asked.

"I do," Molly said.

"Then, I'm sure we can find a clinic that can do it. Artificial insemination has a high success rate, especially for couples who have no genetic or physical defects. And my sperm count is quite normal for my age. I can show you if you like. My microscope is right over there."

Molly froze. "You want to have it done by a lab?"

"How else would we do it?"

"I just thought… that perhaps..."

"Oh!" Sherlock said. He blinked several times. "Oh, yes of course. I suppose that would also have been an option."

Molly's hopes crashed to the ground. Why did she let herself believe? Would she never learn?

"Never mind Sherlock, this isn't the kind of decision that I should make on the spur of the moment. I'll need to think about it. Consider my options. A baby is a big decision."

"Yes."

"I'll call you," she said turning toward the door to hide her face.

She felt more than heard as he walked up behind her. He towered over her, his voice soft and warm with emotion.

"You have always been the most loyal of friends to me, Miss Molly Hooper. I can't tell you how much that has meant to me."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around her shoulders then and kissed her hair. She closed her eyes.

"Good Night," he said before walking down the hall and into his room. She heard the door shut, but she did not see him go, because her eyes were still closed.

She thought about him, and that kiss in the subway and all the way home, closing her eyes as she rode the elevator up to her flat. When she opened the door, her cat meowed loudly at her, and she realized that once again she had forgot to buy cat food.


	20. John's day off

Molly rang the doorbell and then clutched her coat as a strong wind blew a swirl of leaves around her. The door opened then, and Molly stifled a laugh as she saw John carrying Rosie, each of them wearing a daisy over their left ear.

"Good Morning," she said. "You two look pretty."

John looked puzzled for a moment, and then he reached up and removed the flower from his hair.

"Oh this," he said holding it in his palm. "I forgot I had it on. I'm sorry you had to come all this way, Molly. I meant to call and tell you that I took the day off, so I don't need you to watch Rosie."

The wind picked up then and blew the flower off of John's palm and out into the street. Rosie bent forward reaching her arms out after it. Molly instinctively lifted her arms to catch the child if she should fall, but John clutched her closer to his chest, and said, "Best come in out of this wind."

Once in the kitchen, John strapped Rosie into her high chair. Then he sat down and lifted a spoonful of baby food to her mouth.

Molly sat down at the table and watched them with a smile.

"You took the day off?" she said. "Why? You weren't hurt were you?"

"No," John said. "But you were right. I don't see enough of Rosie."

John put another spoonful of food into Rosie's mouth, before passing Rosie the spoon and letting her feed herself. Instead, she banged the spoon against the tray, and tossed it to the floor. Then she used the food to draw finger paintings on the tray.

John picked up the spoon with a sigh. Then he rose to his feet and walked over to the sink to wash it. "I'm sorry Molly, I should have at least offered you coffee. Would you like me to make you some?"

"Oh no, John. I'm fine, you don't have to trouble yourself."

"It's no trouble," he said. Pulling out two mugs. Mary bought this fancy coffee maker. I ought to at least get some use out of it. You're lucky, the milk is fresh. Rosie and I went shopping for groceries on the way home last night. What did you and Sherlock get up to after we left?"

Molly suddenly remembered long fingers stroking the flesh of her shoulders, the soft touch of a kiss on the top of her head.

 _'I can give you what you want, Molly.'_

She shivered at just the thought of it.

"Nothing much," she said.

Rosie overturned her bowl then, and began splashing her food with her palms so that bits of it fell over the edge of the tray. Then she stuffed her hands into her mouth, and licked the food off. John reached down and unfastened her, lifting Rosie out of the chair.

"Excuse me for a moment while I clean her up. I'll be right back."

John took the baby out of the room. He made high pitched happy sounds as he carried her into the bathroom to wash. He seemed relaxed. Both of them did. Molly smiled. She took the tray off of the high chair, and washed it in the sink. She could hear John cooing at the baby in the other room. She wiped the counter, and the table, and the food Rosie'd spilled on the floor. Then she poured two mugs of coffee, adding milk to both, and sugar to hers before talking them out into the living room just as John entered from the back.

"I was going to do that," John said looking at the mugs of coffee.

"You have your hands full," Molly said putting John's coffee on the side table before lowering herself down on the wooden chair.

John sat Rosie down on a blanket surrounded by a ring of toys. Then he picked up the coffee and drank a bit with a satisfied sigh. He sat on the couch watching Rosie as she lifted her rattle and hit her toys violently with it.

"She's a little monster, isn't she?"

"She's adorable. I'm glad to see you taking time to realize how special she is."

"I always knew she was special," John said. "Rosie is a miracle."

They watched as Rosie tossed the rattle and then began chewing on Sherlock's heart toy.

"She really likes that heart," John said. "I wonder if Sherlock will let us keep it?"

"You know he will. Sherlock loves Rosie."

John clutched the mug tighter in his hands, and looked down. "Does Sherlock love anything, other than himself, that is?"

"Of course he does. John, how can you even think that?"

"Sorry Molly," he looks up into her face. "So how is it going… between the two of you? Sherlock make any moves?"

"He offered to father my child."

John spat his coffee out of his mouth and across the carpet. Rosie made a loud cry of delight at the sight.

"He did what!"

"He noticed how lonely I was feeling, and he offered to father my child."

"Well that's quite a bit further than I expected him to go. What did you tell him?"

"I said I needed time to think about it."

"I would expect so." John barked out a laugh. "Imagine that. Sherlock, a father. So the two of you are that serious?"

"No. He's doing it as a favor to me. He just sprang it on me last night after you left. I was a bit shocked myself, but he was right. I have been considering what it would be like to have a child. I've wanted one for some time. Even I didn't realize how much."

John's face went soft as he looked at Rosie. "That's the funny thing about a child. You never think yourself ready to have one, but once they come, you can't imagine a world where they didn't exist. It's like… the universe just doesn't make sense without them in it."

John turned toward her his expression turning serious. "Molly, I wanted to thank you for what you said before, about how I was avoiding Rosie. You were right. I didn't have to work those long hours. I just felt... more at ease when there was someone there to tell me what needed to be done. Here there are... so many memories and regrets. Rosie is so like her mother. I can see Mary's face whenever I look at her."

"That's funny," Molly said. "When I look at her, I only see yours."

John smiled. "That's odd. I don't see myself at all in her. Do you know, after Mary died, I had Rosie's DNA tested? I wanted to make sure that she was really mine. There had been so many lies, I wanted to … no, I needed to know that she was mine. As if it would matter. Even if she was Moriarty's child, she'd still be my Rosie, and I'd still be her father. I love her so much."

He smiled softly at Rosie who was hitting the stuffed heart with her rattle. "And I want to thank you again, Molly, for keeping her safe yesterday."

"Don't mention it."

"I have to mention it, because it is important! When Sherlock told me that the men were inside with guns, I was terrified for Rosie. I wanted to rush right out and get her. I almost broke Sherlock's arm when he tried to hold me back. He convinced me that rushing out would only draw attention to her. So I hid, but all the time, I was imagining the both of you killed or beaten. I imagined you hiding her under a sink next to dangerous chemicals that she might try to eat, or… any number of other horrible things. When you texted that you were both safely leaving in a taxi..." John sighed. "I can't tell you how relieved I was. Rosie means so much to me. Thank you again."

"John, you don't have to thank me. I was just doing what anyone would have done."

"That's not true. Mary wouldn't have done it. She wasn't the type to run from danger. She didn't have the same instincts that most mothers do. She would have left Rosie and tried defeat the men, and failing that, to lead them away."

"You don't know that, John. You don't know what she would have done."

"I do know, because she did do that. She left Rosie behind and ran. It was one of our biggest conflicts, the fact that she'd leave her on her own. She said that she had been fine on her own as a child, and Rosie was strong." John frowned, "That's why it means so much to me that you didn't leave her. That you thought of her safety first. No one else would have."

"Sherlock would..."

"No, he wouldn't."

"I think he might."

"Of course he wouldn't. Not when there was a case to solve. He'd run right into danger without giving a thought for who he'd leave behind. That's what he does. He never thinks about anyone but himself."

"John, that is absolutely not true."

"You're right. He did think about you on the island. I'm glad to see the two of you together. You'll be good for him. You can rein him in when he gets too out of line. I don't want the job anymore."

"But John, we aren't together."

"He's fathering your child. You don't do that with someone you don't care about. So, has he kissed you yet?"

"No, we weren't planning... that is, Sherlock wants to do it in a lab."

"Really? I can't say that I'm that surprised. I imagine that sex with Sherlock is sure to be a bit... unusual."

"Sex with...oh no. He wasn't offering to have sex in a lab... no. He thought we could combine it artificially... with doctors. I mean, he suggested artificial insemination."

John smirked. "Of course he did. I should have expected it. Sherlock doesn't believe in feelings. Did he give you the lens speech?"

"John, I really think you have the wrong idea about Sherlock. You aren't being fair to him."

"Of course I am. I forgave him for being such a shit that someone shot my wife. I forgave him for going back on the drugs, for dragging me into his deadly family drama. I go on cases with him. I'm being more than fair to a man who doesn't have the capacity to..." John stopped talking. He took a breath, and then took a large sip of his coffee. "None of that's important now. What is important is that I tell you how much we appreciate you, Molly. You are a good friend to Rosie and me. Choosing you as her godmother is one of the best things that Mary ever did."

Molly smiled, at his compliment, but she was sad. John's view of Sherlock was so wrong. The man was so desperate to regain John's affections that he almost let himself get murdered just to get his attention. She wanted to explain everything he had said to her about him. Every look of pain or panic he had showed when he spoke of John, but she couldn't. She realized suddenly that Sherlock must have never told John why he jumped. She couldn't say it. It was too big of a topic to be broached by someone else. The two of them needed to talk.

"So Molly, I just realized, you didn't work yesterday. Did you take off work today as well?

"I didn't tell you? I've been suspended."

"Suspended? What for?"

"Incompetence."

"What?"

"They found the records of all the bodies that Sherlock never returned. Bodies that I gave away inappropriately. Plus my falsification of death records."

"But... incompetence? Now tell me, what exactly did the GMC letter say?"

"Letter? I didn't get a letter."

"Are you saying that you were suspended without an official letter? What about at your hearing, has the date come up yet?"

"I haven't had a hearing. He just told me to leave."

"Then, when will you have a chance to argue your case?"

"Argue?"

"Molly, don't tell me that you let them suspend you without even fighting back. You did tell them your side of the story, did you?"

"No. I didn't say anything. What could I say? It's true."

"That you're incompetent? That is the furthest thing from the truth! You do know that you're the best forensic scientist in London, don't you? You know how picky Sherlock is, how little tolerance he has for idiots. You don't think that he'd work with you if he thought that you were incompetent at your job?"

"But they told me to leave until the investigation was over."

John gave a heavy sigh. "Molly, Molly. You need to stand up for yourself! A suspension is a serious blow both to your income and your reputation. You don't just take that sitting down! So Sherlock took some bodies. He isn't just some bloke on the street. He is a registered researcher with official permission to use the labs at Bart's hospital. He is a published scientist. Silly as we may think his tobacco ash paper is, it is published in a journal. When it comes to forensics, Sherlock is the leader in his field. You gave him bodies that were designated for scientific research, and that is what they were used for. I can attest to that. I have seen more disgusting experiments than you can imagine. How the bodies were disposed of after you got rid of them was Sherlock's business, not yours.

"As for the forgery of official documents. Well, you did do that, but maybe Greg can do something to help you with that charge as it was part of an official investigation into Moriarty's crime ring. You should be able to plead for leniency, or you should have been able to if they gave you a hearing. I can't believe they let you go without a hearing. What did they do?"

"He just called me into his office and told me I was suspended."

"So, no official process was followed?"

"I thought that was the process."

"You need to fight this, Molly. Call them back and make an appointment to face these charges."

"But John."

"They need you. It won't be long before they realize what a mess the place is without you. In fact, this might be a blessing in disguise."

"A blessing?"

"Yes. You're the best forensic scientist they have, and yet they treat you like a trainee. How many times have I seen you working nights and weekends. You worked on Christmas or God's sake!"

"I didn't mind. I don't have any family to miss me."

"But one day you will. You are planning to have a child. You chided me for being a workaholic. Unless you want to do the same with your child, you need to get them to give you a little more respect. When they call you, and they will soon if I know anything about it, use the opportunity to negotiate your hours."

"It's a suspension. It's a punishment, not a salary negotiation."

"It's an unproven accusation. They are threatening your livelihood. Go on the attack! Don't let them take you down without a fight. Stand up for yourself!"

"Da! Gaaaa!" Rosie yelled rising to her feet and waving the rattle toward them in such an accurate imitation of her father that both Molly and John laughed. Rosie waved the rattle at them sternly. John smiled broadly and picked her up saying, "That's right Rosie, you tell her," before hugging her tight in his arms.


	21. turbulence

With Rosie bundled up warm, Molly and John opened the door and pushed the stroller outside for their daily walk. A gust of wind blew Molly's hair up to swirl around her face. She brushed it back, taking off her scarf, and laying it over her head. Then she wrapped the ends around her neck and stuffed them into her coat collar.

"It's really windy," Molly said. "Maybe we shouldn't go out today."

"Nonsense!" John said with a grin. "Rosie will love it. She's never seen weather like this." He pushed ahead, walking in brisk, steady steps into the wind. Molly followed behind, looking down at Rosie with trepidation, but she seemed delighted. She stared at the leaves which flew past her like flocks of birds. They scraped across the pavement with a sound as heavy as a freight train.

The park was mostly abandoned. There were no other children, but there were a few other people there. A couple was walking their dogs. One man huddled under a tree attempting in vain to light a cigarette. John kept a steady pace walking a loop around the park. Rosie seemed to enjoy the speed, looking straight ahead wide-eyed, the blond wisps of her hair that had escaped her hood fluttering wildly about her face.

When they were just finishing their first loop, Molly felt a raindrop on her cheek. A few moments later, the rain came down, pelting their skin with cold drops sharp as needles. All around them, people picked up their pace, rushing for cover. John pushed the stroller under a covered bus stop that did little to block the rain drops which flew almost horizontally in the strong wind. He pulled up the roof of the stroller, and dug a blanket out of the bag tying it onto the stroller bars, and tucking it in on all sides to keep the rain away from little Rosie.

They turned toward home then, rushing down the pavement in the pounding rain. Molly had to shield her eyes from it. Once at the corner, John lifted the stroller up, carrying it across the street which was flowing like a stream. Molly hunched over, her hair escaping to whirl around her face like Medusa's snakes as the wind pushed her forward. Molly used her body to block the wind as John unlocked the door, and they burst into the house closing and locking the door behind them to prevent the wind from blowing it open again.

Molly shivered, shaking the wet hair out of her eyes. John laughed out loud.

"That was invigorating!" he said. He bent down and undid the blanket on the stroller. "So how are you, Rosie?"

A deep gurgling laugh came from her throat as John peeked in on her. She reached up to him, and he unfastened her, lifting her in his arms and spinning her around and around while the two of them laughed happily.

Molly rubbed her face to warm it before unwrapping her scarf and hanging it on the hook. Her hair was a mess, and her feet felt like she was still standing in a puddle of water.

"Why Molly! You're soaked. Why don't you go in the back and take a shower."

"But John… I don't have anything to change in to."

Mary's robe is hanging on the door. It's clean. I'm sure that I can find something else of hers for you to wear. Go ahead. The bathroom is right on the other side of the bedroom. If you'll put your clothes out in front of the door, I'll wash them for you. Can't have you catching a cold now, can we?"

"But..."

"That's an order."

Molly smiled. "You can't order me, John."

John sighed. "Shame, isn't it. I can't seem to order anyone about anymore. But you Rosie, you'll listen to me, won't you. Come on, private. It's bath and bed for you," he said as he carried the wet, giggling child out of the room.

Molly took off her coat, shoes and socks, and left them beside the door. Then hesitantly, she walked into John's bedroom. The room was fairly neat. It had a large bed and two bedside tables. One table held a clock, a book, and a pair of reading glasses. The other table was bare. In the corner sat a mirrored vanity with a small assortment of silver topped boxes and a brush which still held a few strands of blond hair. It was almost as if Mary would be back any moment.

The bathroom was much the same. The shelves were cluttered with cosmetics, and perfumes. There were even two toothbrushes hanging by the mirror. Mary's loss still felt fresh in this house. It was eerie to see her bathrobe hanging on the hook on the back of the door next to John's. Molly knew that it made no difference that the person who had owned these things was now dead, but she could feel goosebumps rise on her skin as she touched them. For the first time, she imagined feeling the eerie presence of a ghost.

She reentered the living room after a time wearing one of Mary's jogging suits. She was glad then that she carried extra underwear in her purse on the days of her period. Wearing Mary's would have been a step too far for her. Even so, she felt that spotting these clothes might bring on the wrath of Mary's ghost which seemed far too present in this house. It was as if she was standing just outside the room watching them.

John came in and said, "Rosie's in bed. I fed her and she went out like a light. Fancy some dinner. I don't claim to be a spectacular cook, but I'm open to requests."

"Actually, I do have one thing that I have been curious about. The ' _thing with the peas'_ that Sherlock goes on about. Do you think you could make that?"

John laughed loudly. "It was only a casserole. I never knew that it would have such a large impression on him. But you're in luck. We have peas."

Molly watched John walking around the kitchen as he made the meal. He smiled, but there was a darkness behind his eyes, as if a storm was just under the surface. John had a way of looking so ordinary. When she had first met him, he had stood quietly in Sherlock's shadow. It had taken her months to remember his name. Now she didn't understand why she hadn't immediately seen the turmoil of emotions that seemed ready to burst out of him at any moment. Is this what Sherlock saw when he looked at John? Waves on a sea that at any moment could crash against the shore?

He made her a plate and they sat down to eat. The _thing with peas_ was actually very good. Molly cleaned her plate. Afterward, John offered her a drink, and they sat on the couch in the living room holding warm brandies as they listened to the wind howling outside.

"You can stay over if you want," John said. "No need to brave that storm."

"It'll be fine. I'll call a taxi in a little bit, after my clothes are dry."

"You'll just have to dry them again once you get home."

"John."

"Yes."

"Why are you still living in this house?"

"What do you mean? I've lived here for a while now."

"But it's so large. There are just the two of you now." John turned his face away. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be insensitive, but… do you plan to have more children?"

John stared over at the corner of the room, his face shadowed by the lamp light. "I have considered remarrying… for Rosie's sake. She deserves to have two parents."

"I don't think that you should marry just to find a babysitter."

"Well, I wasn't planning on marrying any time soon. It didn't work so well for me the last time."

The wind howled, and hail pelted the roof for a few seconds.

"Won't this wake Rosie?"

"Nah, she won't wake until she's hungry. She's got past the worst of her colic, thank goodness."

"Colic? There seems to be so much about babies that I don't know. I wonder if I am up to this."

"Don't let the work dissuade you. They really are worth the trouble. I don't think that I would have lived through this last year without Rosie around. It's impossible to think of yourself as unimportant when you know that there is someone in this world whose entire life depends on you."

"So, did you always want children, John?"

"Not at all. What about you?"

"I think so. Funny thing is, I recently found this box of writings that I made as a child. I'm learning a lot about what I used to dream about."

"Writings? I didn't know that you wrote, Molly."

"I don't anymore."

"What kind of things did you used to write? I'd like to know."

"Oh silly stuff. Dark towers, saving people from dragons, and that sort of thing. I imagined younger people following me around, but I don't know if that equates to wanting children. I suppose its more like having brothers and sisters. I don't have any siblings of my own, so I have no basis for comparison."

"Having a sibling isn't the same as having children. You're better off an only child." He took another sip of his brandy and then put the glass down. "I should be careful not to overdo this. Drinking too much is a bit of a family trait."

"I suppose that I should watch myself as well. The other night I was reading some poetry of mine, and I got positively pissed!"

"Poetry? So you write poetry as well?"

"Not anymore."

"Why not? Writing is an excellent way to work things out. I didn't think that I'd like it at first, but I really enjoy it now. What kind of poetry did you write, Love poems?"

"Goodness, no! I'd call it epic poetry if it was any good, but its not. It's awful!"

"So are my love poems. They're utterly awful but I can't help writing them. I guess I am a hopeless romantic at heart."

"I'm not," Molly said. "I never wrote a love poem in my life. I don't believe in destiny, soulmates, or any of that nonsense."

"Oh I do. That is I used to… when I was a kid. I loved watching romances, and I'd talk about finding the other half of my soul. I got teased mercilessly for it."

"So did you…"

"Did I what?"

"Ever find the other half of your soul?"

"I thought I had, a couple of times."

"Tell me, please."

John picked up the glass and took another sip before sitting back in his chair. "Well, okay. I was in medical school, just half a year away from graduating when I met this woman in a launderette. It was like the plot of some romantic comedy. She had left some of her clothes in the dryer I'd put my clothes in. We dug through our clothes together getting embarrassed at this and that piece of clothing. Then I said that since we had already seen each other's underthings, maybe we could go out for a spot of lunch." He smiled, his eyes warm in the soft light of the room. "We dated off and on for about three months and we really hit it off. We liked the same things. We agreed on almost everything. I was beginning to think that she was truly my soulmate."

"Then what happened?"

"I took her home to meet my family, and they loved her. On the day that I found out that I had passed my exams, I rushed over to her flat to celebrate, only to find her in bed having sex with my sister."

"Oh no!" Molly said covering her mouth. "What did you do?"

"I enlisted in the army."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. It worked out well for me in the end though. I found out that I had skills that I never knew about. My medical detachment had made me good in high pressure situations, and I learned that I have a real talent for marksmanship."

"What happened to your girlfriend?"

"Oh, Clara? She married my sister. They got divorced right before I was discharged."

"Oh how sad, your soulmate."

"She wasn't my soulmate. She forgot me easily enough. Besides, I got over those stupid romantic notions in the army. Once I stopped holding everything up to that bar of perfection, I realized that there are matches to be found in every store, and at virtually every street corner. You just find someone moderately nice and moderately pretty who you can tolerate and the possibilities open wide."

"But you said that you thought you'd found your soulmate a couple of times. Who was it? Mary?"

"Oh heaven's no! But Mary was very nice when I needed someone to be nice to me."

"Then who...?"

"Soulmates don't exist, Molly. They were just a stupid thing I believed in as a kid."

"I know, but hearing you say that you don't believe in them makes me feel sad."

"If I were to be brutally honest, it makes me feel sad too."

John downed his drink, and rose to his feet. "I'll go check on your clothes," he said walking into the hall and leaving Molly alone.


	22. Envy

Molly sat back on the couch and closed her eyes.

Soulmates.

She had never believed in them, but if they existed, if she could chose, she knew who she would want hers to be. But the whole point of soulmates was that you didn't chose them. That's why she had never liked the idea. Being forced to be with someone because of some predetermined fate, it would be horrible. The warrior of her childhood stories had cut the threads of fate apart with her icicle sword freeing the princesses from their enslavement to marriages that they didn't want. The hero of her childhood had chased away death, but in the real world death wasn't a specter dressed in black. The death that came for her father was a heart that failed to beat, a brain that failed to spark. It was a body without life, unable to make itself function anymore.

She had relegated her stories to a box then while she searched for the true causes of death. She studied the remnants left behind, peeling them away layer by layer to reveal the muscles that had halted, the clots that clogged the brain, the chemicals that poisoned the cells, the injuries that had destroyed bones and flesh. She had put away her fantasies in her search for truth.

The rhythmic sound of a tree branch scratching against the glass woke her. She had dozed off. She yawned, then she pushed herself up to her feet and walked toward the door to check the time on her phone, but she had risen too fast. She swayed, checking her motion with a hand on the table. Something rattled inside. Carefully, she opened the drawer to find a gilded frame.

She turned the frame over and saw John and Mary smiling on their wedding day. She had been there. Girls threw confetti over the happy bride and groom, while Sherlock stood stiffly just outside of the photo, cast aside like an old toy. Tom had laughed at him. That's why she had stabbed his hand. Sherlock had poured out his heart, pain and regret bleeding out like blood from an open wound. She had wanted so much to reach out to him then, to take him in her arms and say that she understood, but when she finally found the courage to do it, he was already gone.

There was another picture in the drawer, a newspaper clipping inside a thick black frame. Sherlock and John wearing hats below a caption that read, _'Hat-man and Robin: The web detectives'_. She smiled at the photo, and then she frowned. A thunderclap outside reminding her of the loud thump of a file hitting the table. Sherlock had said, 'I want you to calculate John's ideal intake.' As he flipped open the file to show a diagram of John as the ideal man.

John entered then, too soon for her to school her face into something mild and placid, too soon for her to control the anger that flared up in her at the sight of him.

"Your clothes are dry. Would you like me to call you a taxi, or are you going to listen to my advice and stay until this storm blows over?"

Molly put the photos face down on the table and took a deep breath. She pressed her lips together unsure of what she might say.

"Molly, are you alright?"

"Fine," she said sharply, her voice tight.

"You sound upset. What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

She walked over to John, reaching out to take the basket only to feel his hand on her shoulder stopping her.

"Molly, if I've said or done anything to offend you, I want to know what it is."

She remembers Sherlock in the van, his arms full of needle marks, his back covered with torture scars.

"I'm angry."

"Angry, why?"

Molly turned away from John, putting the basket on the couch as she lifted the photos so that the images could be seen. "Because of this," she said. "Why did you hide them?"

John frowned. "I was in a bad place. I just couldn't look them in the face anymore. But why would that make you angry?"

"Maybe angry is the wrong word. What I really feel is envy. I envy you, John Watson."

"You envy me? Why?"

"Because… You have a nice home, and a nice job, a beautiful daughter, and Sherlock's love, and you don't even care. You've been blessed with everything that I have ever wanted, and yet you hide Sherlock's picture in a drawer like you're ashamed of him."

"I'm not ashamed of Sherlock."

"You don't act like his friend. I've listened to you insult him day after day. Well, I can't stomach anymore of it. You call yourself the victim. You refuse to see the truth."

"What truth."

"That Sherlock's not who you think he is, not anymore. You believe the stories that you write in your blog. The brain without a heart. Sherlock was never that, not then and he's certainly not now. He's grown so much since he's come back, and you refuse to see that. I know why you are such a rubbish GP, because you've lost your compassion. You stubbornly hold on to your illusion that you've been wronged. It's all about you now, your pride, your pain. Have you seen Sherlock's back?"

"His back?"

"He was tortured while he was away. Beaten with a pipe."

"That can't be true. When he came back, I knocked him to the floor. If he had been wounded, it would have hurt, but he never said a word about it to me."

"Three of his ribs were broken. They didn't heal straight. You would have seen it if you had given him the examination that Mrs Hudson begged you to, but you wouldn't even touch him."

"Molly. He was pulling a stunt, taking drugs..."

"He almost died, and the fact that you can so casually disregard how close to death he was..."

"He faked the liver test."

"He wasn't faking the drugs. He didn't know where he was half the time. Wiggins told me that he almost got hit by a car! But you don't care. Your insult is worth so much more than his life."

"I'm not a saint. I never claimed to be. You say Sherlock's improved. Good for him, good for you! I was never good enough or smart enough for him. I wasn't what either of them really wanted."

"How can you say that?"

"Because it's true. I'm a broken man. I always have been. Mary married me because she wanted a safe place to retire. She chose me because I was easy. Because I was so... grateful for any affection after Sherlock...after he died. And he did die... to me. He was dead, and my dreams, my hopes, everything that I had built my life around died with him. You say you envy me, well I envy you, because he trusted you to help him, but he left the cripple behind."

"You're wrong. Sherlock idolizes you. When he took me on cases with him, he couldn't help but call out your name."

"Like one calls a dog. He told you about Redbeard, didn't he? He lost his best friend as a child, and somehow his mind latched on to me, but it isn't real. He just likes having me around. When Mary shot him, I was ready to leave my wife and protect him forever, but he told me to go back to her. He didn't want me, because I'm not good enough."

"Is that why you bought a gun, to protect him?"

"Who told you I had a gun? Oh right... Sherlock did. I suppose you talked about me when he was pretending to be dead, hiding out in your bedroom and laughing about what a fool I was to believe it all. I don't have a gun anymore. They took it away when Sherlock used it to save Mary. They were such a good pair, Sherlock and Mary, always risking everything for each other. They were the ones who should have married."

"You think they did everything they did for each other? No, John. They made peace for you. They did everything for you. Did you not know that?"

"It may look that way, Molly, because I follow Sherlock around. I can't help but follow him. He's like a drug. He gets under my skin, and I think that we… I believe for a while that we are truly partners, but its only an illusion. I'm just someone to bounce ideas off of. The useful blogger, the fool. And Sherlock, doesn't feel affection the same as a normal man. Maybe for you. Maybe you'll have a chance of reaching him. I never could."

"How can you say that, John? Sherlock jumped off a roof for you!"

"He jumped to beat James Moriarty."

"He jumped off that roof to save your life. That's why he didn't tell you he was alive, because if you had known that he wasn't dead, Moriarty's assassins would have killed you."

"No, no. You're mistaken."

"We did talk, before he jumped and it was obvious to me that the one thing he couldn't bear was for any harm to come to you. He died so that you'd be safe."

John shook his head from side to side. "You're wrong. His jumping had nothing to do with me. I was just his alibi."

"If you're so sure that he didn't jump for you, why don't you ask him?" Molly said leaning in so that her nose almost touched his face. John stared back at Molly, eyes like slits. They were still, the rain on the roof the only sound in the room. Then John was moving, rushing for the door. He pulled on his coat and gloves.

"You'll watch Rosie for me, won't you?" he said before pulling open the door and rushing out into the storm.


	23. Clearing the Air

The sound of Rosie crying woke Molly. She yawned, sitting slowly to find that she had fallen asleep on John Watson's couch. She pushed aside the blanket and sat up, stretching. Then she remembered that she was on her period.

She stood up, turned on the lamp, and checked the couch for stains. Rosie cried as she ran her hand across the pillows. "I'll be there in a moment!" Molly called, but that only made Rosie scream louder as she rushed past her room to go to the bathroom. Her period had stopped.

By the time she entered the baby's room, Rosie was screaming. Her eyes were scrunched up and her face was beet red. "There, there, little Rosie," Molly said lifting her up and laying her down on the changing pad. "I'm here."

She changed Rosie and then carried her into the kitchen for a bottle of milk. She was still a bit fussy, unhappy about the wait. She frowned at Molly who frowned right back. "Even little princesses like you needs to learn to wait from time to time," she said. "You don't scream at your daddy like that, do you?"

Molly put Rosie in her high chair, and gave her a bottle of milk. She looked around. John wasn't home. He certainly wouldn't have slept through Rosie's crying. She checked her phone, but there were no messages.

They had fought, then John had left, running out into the storm. In the light of day, the fight embarrassed Molly. What had she been thinking to confront him like that, in his own house? Was that how a guest should act, especially after such a nice dinner with peas? On the other hand, John had been wrong, wrong, wrong, blaming all his problems on Sherlock when Sherlock had been so accommodating.

She wanted to shower. Her clean clothes were still in the basket, but she didn't know what to do with Rosie. In the end, she brought her playpen into John and Mary's room and showered with the door open so that she could hear if the baby cried. She stepped out of the bath, towel around her, worried when she couldn't hear the baby anymore, but Rosie was fine. She contentedly sucked on the bottle while she patted Sherlock's stuffed heart with her other hand.

That worry, that anxiety that she felt, wondering every moment where the baby was, John must feel that all of the time. If she were to have a child, she would feel that way too, and taking care of a baby alone was damn inconvenient! She shouldn't have blamed John for being overwhelmed. She had babysat for John before, but she always knew that she could leave at the end of the day. How trapped John must feel sometimes. Then again, John had said that it's impossible to think of yourself as unimportant when there is someone in this world whose entire life depends on you. A dependent, is that what she really wanted?

Rosie dropped the bottle and lifted her arms. Molly picked her up holding Rosie close. Rosie was warm, and soft, and smelled of milk. She kissed the top of Rosie's head, and carried her back into her room so they could both get dressed.

As Molly was hauling the baby's playpen back into her room, she passed a mirror and realized that she was smiling. She also realized that Mary's shampoo and conditioner made her hair shine. She would have to take a note of the brand. Rosie was excited. So much different than she had been earlier that morning. Molly strapped Rosie into her stroller and stuffed the toy heart into the back with the diaper bag, then she wrapped her scarf around her neck, and they went outside,

The sky was deep blue with wispy cirrus clouds that shone orange and white in the light of the rising sun. She pushed the stroller out of the door making sure that it was locked behind her. People were standing in their lawns, picking up branches that had been blown down by the storm. Molly had to maneuver Rosie around a few of these as she pushed her toward the tube station.

The air was cold and clean. Molly breathed in deep. It made her feel calm. Rosie was also in a good mood. She looked at everyone's faces as they passed on the street, and she sat quietly while on the train, despite the crowds. Once they had reached Baker street, however, it was clear that she was ready to get out of the stroller. She struggled with her straps, trying to pull them off her arms as Molly rang the bell.

It was only as she waited for someone to open the door that she began to wonder what she would do if John was not here, if John had been injured in the storm, or if he had simply left town frustrated with all of them.

Mrs Hudson opened the door and smiled. "Come in, come in!" she said. "The boys are upstairs."

 _The boys._ Thank God.

Molly walked upstairs unsure of what she would find. She carried Rosie into the room and saw John and Sherlock sitting in their chairs across from each other. They turned their faces toward them as they entered. Both of them were smiling.

"Good Morning, Molly," Sherlock said. He had a straight, shallow cut on his left cheek. The kind of mark that might be made by a wedding ring scraping across the skin. John had a blue-black bruise below his right eye. She wondered if she should mention it.

"Good Morning, Sherlock, John," Molly said, "So, how are you both this morning?"

"Fine!" Sherlock said with a smile and a bit of a wink.

"Perfectly fine," John said.

Molly passed Rosie over to John who reached out his arms to take her. He sat her on his lap and bounced her once or twice before giving her a kiss on the head.

"So," Molly asked glancing at each of them in turn. "How did it go?"

"How did what go?" Sherlock asked.

"Did you work things out?"

"I don't know what you mean, Molly, everything is fine between us. Always has been."

Molly looked at John who snuggled against Rosie's head to hide his smirk. Molly put her hands on her hips and frowned wondering what she would need to do to get someone to tell her what had happened.

Sherlock rose to his feet and walked over to her. Then he reached out, and pulled her into his embrace. Molly froze in shock standing stiffly with her face pressed against his dressing gown. He leaned down and whispered, "Thank you, Molly," into her ear in a warm low voice, and gave her a squeeze. By the time she had realized what was happening, he had released her, walking into the kitchen to steal a pastry off of a tray that Mrs Hudson was holding as she attempted to clean the table.

Sherlock kissed Mrs Hudson on the forehead, while taking the towel away from her. Then he began wiping the table himself.

"You're in a good mood this morning," Mrs Hudson said watching as he turned on the water, and began washing the dishes. Molly raised an eye brow.

"Oh Molly dear, have you had breakfast yet?" Mrs Hudson asked. "These two have just finished, but I have more food downstairs if you're hungry."

Molly watched as Sherlock ran the water in the sink with a smile on his face.

"Molly?" Mrs Hudson asked looking at her dazed expression.

"Oh! Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson. I haven't had breakfast. That is... I would like to have some."

"Then leave the boys up here and come downstairs. We can eat, and have a nice chat."

"Thank you," Molly said looking over her shoulder at the three of them, all smiling, all happy. John had let Rosie down, and she had gone straight for the toys. She was holding one that was probably meant to be a liver. John smiled at Rosie, and Sherlock smiled at John. He was standing at the kitchen door drying a mug with a dish towel. John turned to face Sherlock then, and both of them smiled even wider. Molly turned away, closing the door behind her. She didn't want Rosie to crawl near the stairs.

"What happened?" Molly asked as soon as she entered Mrs Hudson's flat and closed the door behind her.

"Funny you should ask," she said. "I was going to ask you what happened. I suppose that you were with John last night."

"I was. We had... a bit of a fight."

"Well, you weren't the only one he fought with. John came in at the height of the storm screaming out for Sherlock. He was as wet as a drowned rat. Dripping water onto my carpets mind you! He stormed upstairs without even taking off his coat.

"They were yelling and screaming and throwing furniture against the walls. Now, I don't like to interfere in family matters, but, I was worried someone would get hurt. I was expecting any minute for the neighbors to complain, but then again with the married ones moved out, and with the noise from the storm, I probably shouldn't have been so concerned.

"I resolved to go up there and stop them, but suddenly it quieted down. I went back into my flat keeping an ear open for trouble, but it stayed quiet all night. The boys must have finally worked out their issues, I'm so relieved."

"You saw them at breakfast. What did they say happened?"

"They didn't say anything about it, but Sherlock was positively ecstatic! You saw how he was. He's been like that all morning. Twirling me about and kissing me on the cheek. Whatever they fought about, it seemed to have cleared the air between them. All I can say is, it's about time. And you dear, how is your trouble at work going?"

"Work? Oh my! I was going to call them."

"Do you want to use my phone?"

Molly looked over at the phone. After Eurus' call, she was loathe to touch it.

"No thank you, I can do it at home. That is, while I have a home to go to. My flat is going to be demolished. I have only a couple of weeks to get moved out, and I don't have a place to go. You wouldn't know of some place that I could rent, would you?"

"Oh dear, it isn't the best time to be looking."

"I know. I'd prefer somewhere near the hospital, but I'll take anything really."

"Whatever you do, don't say that when you're out looking, Molly. There are some very unscrupulous landlords out there. I wouldn't sign anything without having looked about a bit first."

"But I don't have time to be choosy."

"Then why don't you move in next door. The flat is empty now."

"Next door? But there is no way that I could afford it."

"It would only be temporary, until you find yourself a new flat. Mrs Turner was planning on fixing the place up, making a few improvements before putting the flat on the market again. I'm sure that she'd prefer it if the flat was making a bit of money and not sitting idle. I could talk to her, get her to give you a good deal as long as you don't mind a few workmen coming in from time to time to paint and re-plaster."

"I won't mind, that would be wonderful really. Are you sure she will let me stay?"

"I'll ask her right now, but I already know she'll agree. Why don't you go home and get packed. That should take a couple of days at least. By that time, I'll have it all worked out."

"Oh Mrs Hudson. Thank You!" Molly said giving her a hug.

"Now, how many times am I going to have you remind you to call me Martha?"

"Thank you, Martha. I'll get started on packing right now." Molly headed toward the door, then she turned back suddenly. "But does she take pets? I have Toby. He must be starving by now."

"Oh… I didn't think about that. Don't worry. You go on home, and I'll phone you once I have it all worked out."

"Thank you," Molly said putting on her coat. She looked up the stairs once wondering if she should say goodbye, and then she turned away and rushed out of the flat.


	24. The Dress

Toby was fine, although he did scold her a bit, meowing loudly as Molly entered the flat. She picked up the teapot that he had knocked onto the floor. Luckily it wasn't broken. After she fed him, he rubbed back and forth across her legs, smelling her shoes.

She was able to get some boxes from the grocers, and she started packing that very afternoon, playing Glee on the telly as she packed her anatomy books into apple boxes. She remembered what John had said about fighting for her job, and she wondered why she had not thought of it before. She went through the arguments in her head. She had a valid case. Perhaps she should call them now. She pulled out her phone, and then set it down on the table. She would call the hospital first thing tomorrow morning and make an appointment.

That night, she stared at the ceiling unable to sleep. Her head was too full of moving, and her job, of Rosie, and John, and Sherlock offering to father her child. She did sleep eventually, dozing off in the early hours of the morning only to wake at the harsh sound of her alarm clock buzzing. It surprised her because she hadn't heard the sound in over a week.

She showered, dressed, ate breakfast, and fed the cat. Then she stared at her phone before deciding that she needed to make an appointment in person. She was a block away from the hospital when she turned into a coffee shop instead and called her bosses receptionist. She made an appointment to argue her case early next week. She hung up the phone and noticed that her heart was racing. How could she argue effectively for her job, when just calling the receptionist had caused her such stress?

She jumped as the phone rang in her hand, then she hesitantly lifted it to her ear wondering if they were calling her back.

"Hello."

"Hello Molly Hooper!"

"Maestro Paul?"

"Paulo to you, my dear. I was wondering, can you come by the studio today? I have something to show you."

"Of course," she said. "I'm not that far away."

"Wonderful!" he said. "Then I will see you soon. I can hardly wait! Ciao."

Molly paid for her coffee, and left. She felt very free as she walked away from the hospital. With the date for her interview planned, there was nothing for her to do this weekend but pack. She took a bus and got off at the familiar storefront.

From the outside, the Mint Salon looked just the same as it had the first time she had come. No one could tell that just a few days ago this place had been the sight of an armed robbery. Once inside, however, she noticed a change when the once snotty receptionist smiled at her.

"Miss Hooper, please come this way. The Maestro is expecting you."

"Where are you going? I was here first," said a woman in an expensive fur-lined coat.

"You'll need to wait your turn," the receptionist barked as she opened the door for Molly and escorted her into the back of the salon. She took her to room five as before.

"Thank you miss, um. What is your name?" Molly asked.

"My name is Theresa. Thank you for what you did the other day," Theresa said reaching out to shake Molly's hand before walking back to her post at the front desk.

She entered room five then to find Paulo waiting for her. He reached out and gave her a big hug before looking appraisingly at her hair. "You stopped using that cheap shampoo. Good girl! Now turn around. Let me take a look at you."

Molly turned around, feeling awkward. She hadn't thought to dress up nicely this morning as she had only planned to make an appointment. She was wearing slacks, a blue blouse, and her strawberry patterned sweater under her coat. Her mother's scarf clashed with it all, but she didn't have the heart to pack it away.

Paulo smiled all the same. "I have something for you, Molly. To thank you for everything you did for us."

"Really, Paulo. I didn't do anything. Sherlock and John did."

"And they would never have come if you hadn't talked them into it. Without you, the tiara would be stolen, and my reputation would be in a shambles. Now let me show you what I have for you."

Paul pushed aside a curtain to reveal an absolutely stunning dress. It was a floor length dress of rose gold covered with a tower of narrow rectangular sequins that turned golden when in shadow. He turned it so that she could see how the back draped in an artful arc. Her mouth dropped open at the sight of it.

"Oh my goodness!" Molly said. "That dress is just gorgeous. It's beautiful."

"It's yours."

"What?!"

"When I told Oscar what had happened, he insisted it bringing it back for you from Milan. I chose the color. I hope you don't mind. I think that it will go well with your complexion."

"I...I can't possibly take it. It's much too expensive."

"It's a gift. You won't insult me by refusing it, besides, don't you want to see what it would look like on you?"

Molly reached out a finger to touch the dazzling fabric. It glittered and so did her eyes. She nodded, letting him lead her behind the curtain as he hung the dress on a hook beside her.

She put it on and marveled at the way that golden rainbows were reflected all around her. When she stepped out, Paulo smiled. "I was right. It does match your complexion."

Molly looked at herself in the mirror and was amazed. She looked like a movie star.

"I'm surprised that it even fit me. Surely this was designed for a model to wear."

"Oscar had it made in your size."

"Had it made?"

"Of course! Dresses like this don't come off the rack."

"But… how did Oscar know my size?"

"Because I told him. I am, after all, a professional."

The dress was like a cross between a waterfall of pink ice and a suit of armor. The color brought out the blush of her skin without overpowering it. The narrow waist and princess cut made her look beautiful while the subtle pattern made her look strong. She felt amazing in it. Then she thought of the red dress crumpled up in her closet.

"Thank you, Paulo. This dress is truly amazing, but I can't take it. I have nowhere to wear it. I don't even have a place to store it as I'm going to be moving soon. I wouldn't want to damage it. A dress like this must cost upward of a thousand pounds."

"Four thousand, nine hundred and ninety seven pounds, actually."

"Four tho..."

"Don't you worry about the price. And you don't have to take it home. You can keep it here. I would think that you would want to anyway until the ball."

"The ball? What ball?"

"The Ambassador's ball. Didn't Mr Holmes tell you? The tiara was for a countess who was going to the Ambassador's ball. When she heard what you had done to save it for her, she invited the three of you to the ball as her guests."

"She invited Sherlock, John and me to a ball?"

"No one told you?"

Molly sighed, "I don't think Sherlock plans to go. He doesn't like social events."

"That's no reason why _you_ can't go. I will do your hair and make up myself."

"But I can't possibly..."

"We'll do a trade. I will get you all dressed up for the ball, if you will let me photograph you in this dress."

"You want a photograph...of me?"

"Of course. Once everyone sees how I can transform you from dowdy to dazzling, they'll be knocking down my door. You'll let me do it, won't you? Please, say yes."

Molly smiled. "Yes!"

"Then take off the dress and let me do something with that hair. I can't let you out of here with that messy bun. It'll ruin my reputation."

Molly spent the day with Paolo talking about the ball. She left that evening with a smile even brighter than the dress.


	25. Friday night

It was Friday, the day of her drinks party and she finally had something to talk to her friends about. She had to go if only to thank them for the gift certificate which had led to it all. She walked into the pub and rushed over to the table only to be confronted with a tall man in a dark suit.

"Miss Molly Hooper."

"Yes," she said.

"There is someone here who would like a word with you." He gestured to the window, and she could see a large black car with shaded windows sitting outside.

She walked back through the door and looked at the car which was idling in a no parking zone. Glancing over her shoulder she saw all of the other girls plastered against the window.

The man opened the car door.

"Good evening, Mrs Hooper," Mycroft Holmes said. "Would you mind speaking to me for a moment?"

Molly looked back at her friends who stared wide-mouthed as she climbed into the car. The door closed. She turned to face Mycroft Holmes and said, "So what do you want to talk about?"

"Are you honestly planning on letting my brother Sherlock impregnate you with his sperm?"

"Wow! that's quite the conversation starter. But, as a matter of fact, yes, I am considering it."

"Are you quite mad?"

"What's wrong? I'm an adult. I can have a child if I want to."

"I am not disputing your ability to have any amount of offspring you so desire. I am just questioning the logic of your having one with Sherlock!"

"He's not a child."

"No, but he is a drug addict. He is of borderline mental stability, and he's had a great deal of shock lately, but it isn't even him that I'm worried about. I'm worried about you."

"Me?"

"Please don't try to tell me that this idea is your own. You had no such plans a year ago. Such a thought would never have come into your mind if you hadn't received that call from my sister. This is Eurus through and through."

"Eurus? Why would you think so?"

"This is what she does. She gets in people's heads and influences them."

"But...why would Eurus want me to have a child?"

"You told me that she wanted to give something back to Sherlock in exchange for what she took. Don't you see the logic of it. She took a child away from my brother, and now she wants to give him one, through you."

"That's absurd."

"It's logical."

"But Sherlock's the one who brought it up."

"After you went by in the red dress. Oh yes, I know all about it. My parents wouldn't stop talking about it all through dinner, the way that Sherlock had a girlfriend."

"I'm not his girlfriend."

"You're a girl, and you're his friend. Their logic, not mine."

"But… even if your sister started me thinking of it, what does she get out of it. The baby is mine."

"The baby is of Sherlock's blood. That makes him the father, and it makes her an aunt. Your child would give Eurus hope."

"Hope for what? What does she want?"

"Another Sherlock perhaps, another life to manipulate. Please tell me that this was all a misunderstanding. Just a joke between Sherlock and you."

"It wasn't a joke, but I haven't told him yes either. I'm surprised you even found out. I didn't think that he would discuss it with you."

"I keep a close eye on my brother's legal activities, and when he asks our lawyer about the inheritance rules for test tube babies, it peaks my interest."

Molly crossed her arms. "I thought that you would be happy. It would give you someone else to have power over."

Mycroft Holmes took a breath and then looked directly into her eyes. "Miss Hooper. I believe that we may have got off on the wrong foot, so to speak. I understand that you find me overbearing, but please consider your actions. A child once born can not be unborn. Whether Sherlock acknowledges its parentage or not, it would be a Holmes child and that has consequences. My parents would be ecstatic. They did not expect a child from Sherlock, and I have long been a lost cause. And Eurus..." he shuddered. "Let us hope that never becomes an issue. But if you do this, Eurus will know. All of us will know whose child it is, so I must ask, is this what you truly want?"

Molly looked down at her hands as she considered the question. "I didn't expect anything from Sherlock. I didn't ask for a marriage contract, or to give him a child. Sherlock offered to father mine because he knew that I was considering having a child on my own."

"It was to be expected considering your recent birthday, and your father's early death."

"You may have predicted it, but it isn't your decision. If I do decide to have a child with Sherlock, it will be the choice of the two of us alone. Do you understand?"

"Unequivocally. "

"Then, can I leave now?"

"Just one more thing. The inspection that led to your suspension would have happened eventually, but the timing had most definitely been manipulated. Also, the person chosen to inspect your hospital, he has… a bit of a reputation. He is excellent at getting to the root of corrupt and inefficient institutions, but his zealous attitude tends to go astray when faced with good intentions and efficiency. He was never meant to be sent to your institution at all. The schedule was altered. It has been returned to the way it was meant to be. You will find that your hospital is no longer under such...scrutiny."

"That's good."

"I can still get you reinstated if you so wish. It would only take a phone call."

"I would appreciate it if you did not do that. I've already made plans, and if I can't solve my problems on my own, what kind of parent will I make? Goodbye, Mr Holmes."

"By all means, call me Mycroft. We are almost family after all." He reached past her then and pushed open the door. Molly stepped out and walked briskly back into the pub, not even turning to watch him go. As she walked up to the table, a host of eyes stared at her.

"What?" she said.

Nancy walked over and glared down at her from atop her six inch heels. "Molly! What is it about you that attracts men with expensive cars?" she said. "If only the rest of us could be so lucky."

Molly smiled. "If you think that's something, just wait until you hear where I've been invited," she said.


	26. The Morgue

Molly woke Saturday morning to a flat full of half-packed boxes. Every room it seemed was full of some obstruction both physical and emotional. She stared at the box next to her closet with the wrinkled red dress draped over it. Then she walked into the living room past a box of books, an open photo album on top showing her flashing her engagement ring at the camera. She closed it and went into the kitchen.

She drank down a glass of water, glad that she had exercised some self control last night despite the fact that her friends had offered her drink after drink for the details of her story. She had left after Alice started singing her second song. Once home, she had fallen asleep as soon as her head hit her pillow.

She should continue packing, but she didn't want to spend her day on anything so boring. She wanted to know what was happening in the morgue. They had mentioned a backlog, and she wanted to know how they were handling it. She needed to know, but her appeal wasn't until Tuesday. Then again, she had been suspended not banished. It wouldn't hurt if she just took a look, and she was wasting away in this flat.

Molly showered and dressed quickly. Then she picked up her badge and her keys and stared at them before placing them in her pocket and heading off to Barts.

She entered through the back stairwell stopping to let people pass so that she wasn't seen, and waiting for the sound of their feet to go by before coming out into the hallway. She pushed open the door to the morgue and looked down through the glass to see Peter Ivans starting to dissect a body.

"Peter," she called through the microphone. The young man jumped. Peter was a recent medical school graduate who had been taking an internship in the morgue.

"Miss Hooper!" he said. "I didn't see you there."

"Peter, what are you doing?"

"I'm about to perform an autopsy."

"But shouldn't you wait for the principle forensic scientist before you make the first cut?"

"I am the principle scientist for this autopsy," he said scalpel poised over the body of a young man.

Molly narrowed her eyes, looking around the room. There were three carts pushed against the wall behind him. Three bodies under the shrouds. They should be in the drawers, not just sitting out in the room.

"Wait right there," she said rushing out the door and around to the entrance of the examination theater. She picked up a lab coat from a hook beside the door and put it on.

Peter looked up nervously as Molly entered, watching as she put fresh gloves on. "Are you back then?" he asked. "I'm glad. I haven't done one of these on my own before."

"Why are cadavers lying out on the tables like this. They should be kept in the cold chambers until autopsy."

Molly went over to the wall and started pulling out drawers looking for one that was empty.

"The drawers are all full," Peter said. "Dr Cassidy is on leave, and Mr Sing has surgeries to do. We've been sending as many bodies as we can to other hospitals, but we just haven't been able to keep up. The director was upset. He told me that these bodies had better be processed and removed by Monday or else."

"And so you decided to do the autopsies yourself. Have you done any yet?"

"No. This one is my first."

"Who was he?" Molly asked moving to stand on the other side of the table. "Tell me, why does he require an autopsy?"

"I don't know. It's just...does."

Molly sighed, then she went to the foot of the table and picked up the chart there. "His name is Brian Cavendish. He was age 34 at death. He complained of a pain in his jaw, but when his girlfriend suggested that he go to the hospital, he said that it wasn't that bad. The next morning, she found him in bed, dead. What does that suggest to you?"

"Uhm, perhaps a heart attack? Sometimes heart defects have referred pain in the jaw."

"Therefore, what should we be looking for?"

"Some kind of blockage in the heart."

"I mean what should you be looking for before you cut? What have you done with the body so far?"

"Nothing, I just wheeled him out here."

Molly walked around the table and pushed the tray of dissection tools away from the young man. She held out her hand and he passed her the scalpel which she placed on the tray.

"It may appear that this man died of a heart attack. That may be what people say, but we are here to get at the truth, and we do it by ruthlessly following procedure. We don't take the word of a girlfriend about why this man died. It is not her job to determine the cause of death, it is ours. For all we know, this so called girlfriend of his murdered him and told the story to allay suspicion from herself. A sloppy autopsy could be enough to have the prosecution's case thrown out and let a murderer go free. There is a checklist on the wall. Go get it."

Peter walked over and took a clipboard off the wall.

"And what are we supposed to do first?" Molly asked.

"It says that we are to photograph the body and then weigh it."

"Then bring that cart over here so we can take him to the scale. Peter, what do you have on your hands?"

"Gloves."

"You should have on two pairs of gloves during an autopsy. No, don't just put them over the ones you already touched the body with. Throw those away and get on two new pairs. Might as well wash your hands first. We are going to do this by the book without skipping steps. Do you understand Mr Ivans?"

"Yes Maam!" he said while washing his hands in the large stainless steel sink.

"Good," Molly said. "With a bit of work, you may yet make pathologist."


	27. Zorro!

Molly performed the autopsies while Peter watched, three bodies in quick succession. Brian Cavendish had indeed died of cardiac arrest, but Margery Jones, housewife, fifty-two years, had died of arsenic poisoning, and Kevin Krimple, retired accountant, sixty-nine thought to have drowned in the stream behind his house, actually had first suffered a stroke. His body rolling down into the stream after he was already unconscious.

Molly sewed up the bodies and typed the relevant details into the report on the computer. Only then did she realize that she wasn't supposed to have access to the bodies.

"Here, you sign your name, Peter."

"But you did it. Your name should be on it."

"You watched it all. Sign it!" she said, and he did.

"Now take the bodies and put them in the fridge until they can be picked up."

"Thank you, Miss Hooper. I really couldn't have done it without your help."

"I know. Now, if you need help, you should call for it. Don't just bumble around. I know you think that what we do here doesn't count because the bodies are already dead, but you're wrong. By categorizing the causes of death, we help people save lives. We identify the dangers out there. We study the anatomy, and determine the physiological causes of death that will ultimately allow doctors to prevent these deaths from happening. And that doesn't even include the deaths that were done maliciously. We are the bringers of truth, the ones whose evidence brings killers to light. You remember that when you feel the need to take short cuts. There are no short cuts to the truth."

Molly heard clapping then. Sherlock and John were at the door. John Watson was clapping while Sherlock positively beamed at her.

"Bravo!" John said. "That was a wonderful speech."

"John, Sherlock, why are you here?"

"I could ask the same of you," Sherlock said. "But it appears you are here as an instructor. We on the other hand are on a case. Margery Jones. They said that it was food poisoning, but I believe it was something much more malicious."

"Arsenic," Molly said. "Let me pull the body out for you."

"And John," Sherlock said. "The more appropriate term would be 'Brava'."

"Quite right, Brava! Molly. Excellent work."

As soon as Peter had gone, wheeling Kevin Krimple down to the freezer, John stood beside her and asked, "Have you had your hearing yet? I thought you were still suspended."

"She is, John," Sherlock said examining the hands of Margery Jones with a magnifying glass. "That isn't her own lab coat she's wearing. She obviously just took one from the hall. The sleeves are too long. I expect she was bored and she couldn't stay away."

"I was bored," Molly said.

Sherlock smiled up at her, "Of course you were. I don't know how you've stood it for so long!" he said, before continuing his examination.

"The two of you and your bodies," John said hands behind his back. "I much prefer the live variety."

"To each their own," Sherlock said closing his magnifying glass with a snap. "Now I suggest we remove ourselves from the room as soon as possible. The medical class is due to appear for their morning examination of the morgue, and we wouldn't want Molly to be found violating any rules before her appeal, now would we?"

"No," John said as he smiled at Molly, his hands clasped behind his back.

Molly pulled off her gloves and tossed them in the bin, but she didn't reduce her time washing in the sink one second. Not even when they heard footsteps. Sherlock tapped his foot, and John held open the door for Molly. She passed through just a few seconds before the class of students reached the double doors on the other side of the room.

Sherlock led them by the shortest path out of the building. Molly hung the lab coat on a hook near the door feeling naughty as she passed out into the sun and climbed into a taxi to sit between the two of them. It was only after they had been driving for a few minutes that she realized that she didn't know where she was going.

"What are you doing?" Molly asked.

"Thanking you, for giving me a kick in the arse so I could finally talk things out with Sherlock."

"And talking requires your fists?"

"Apparently so," Sherlock said rubbing the bruise on his cheek. "Nevermind, we're there."

They stopped, and John paid for the taxi while Sherlock flew up a flight of steps and pushed into a building above a shop. Molly followed. Sherlock chatted with a tall handsome man with dark sideburns a swirl of brown hair over his forehead. He stepped up close to Sherlock and whispered in his ear before pressing a key into his hand. Molly looked at John, who simply watched as Sherlock pushed his way through the door with a smirk on his lips.

The room they entered was large with a smooth wooden floor. One wall had windows that looked out on a balcony above the street. One wall was lined with mirrors, and one wall had a wooden bar down the length of the wall.

"Is this… a dance studio?" Molly asked.

"Obviously," Sherlock said hanging his coat and scarf on a hook near the door.

"Why are we here?"

"Paulo called us," John said. "He told us about the dress and how you planned to go to the ball alone, and then Sherlock said that you would probably make a fool out of yourself."

"I said no such thing, John. I simply suggested that she would end up flat on her face if she tried to dance in that dress the way she had at your wedding."

"Oh, I see. That was much nicer, was it?"

"I'm not here to be nice."

"So, why are we here?" Molly asked a bit perturbed.

"I'm here to teach you how to waltz so that you can dance at the Ambassador's ball since you do insist on going."

"You should be happy, Molly. He didn't bother to get access to a professional dance studio when he taught me. We had to dance around in the flat on Baker street."

"That's only because you were too embarrassed to have anyone else see you dancing. If you had allowed me to, I would have brought you..."

"Yes, yes, Sherlock. I was just making a joke. Now can we get on with it."

"You're going to teach me how to dance?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Sherlock glanced over at John who glanced back at him. "You did explain this. I do recall us mentioning this just a moment ago, didn't we John? It is a ball. Dancing is what one does at a ball. I take it that you still want to go, don't you?"

"Yes but, you don't want to go, do you Sherlock?" Molly asked.

"Paulo said that you are going, and you can't dance the waltz alone."

"So you...you plan on dancing with me?"

"John, did I miss something? Did Molly hit her head getting out of the car. She seems very slow today. Of course I'll be dancing with you? Who else would? And since I don't want you disgracing me, we are here to practice before the event."

"So, you're going to go with me to the Ambassador's ball?"

"John, can you examine her. Somethings wrong with her."

"I think that she's just surprised that you'd want to go, Sherlock."

"Why wouldn't I want to go?"

"Because you never want to go anywhere that there are tedious people who want to talk to you."

"But Molly would be with me, and she's not tedious."

Molly smiled. "So are you going too, John?"

"Heavens no. I'm an old father now. I'll let you young folk go out dancing. I will be happy to stay at home with my daughter and watch the telly."

"That's enough small talk. John. You dance with her first. Let's see how much she knows."

Sherlock walked over to a record player and put on the music. Then John stepped forward and held out his hand. Molly took it, and John put his arm on her waist.

"Stand straight!" Sherlock yelled, and the music began.

Molly had learned to waltz in school with the other boys and girls for some recital they had had ages ago. They thought it would be nice if the children waltzed around the gym for the parents. It was supposed to show culture or something. Navvy Matthews had stepped on her toes every time. John was a much better dancer than Navvy had been.

After the first waltz, Sherlock came over and told them to start again. He adjusted their arms and pushed on her hips. Then he walked around them tapping her shoulders down with a wooden stick that had somehow materialized in his hand. He tapped the floor in time like the caricature of an old ballet mistress. She wondered then if he had taken ballet as a child. The man who had given him the key certainly looked like a dancer. How long had he danced? Was John the only one he had danced with?

"Focus, Molly focus! Shoulders down, stomach in, chin up. You look like you're being stabbed with daggers. Smile!"

"Don't worry," John said. "It gets easier after a while. And you are so much better than I was when we started."

"Stop. Molly stay. John, put on the music. It's my turn to dance with her."

Molly sucked in a breath as Sherlock stepped forward. He passed John the stick and moved his patent leather shoes forward until they were parallel.

"Feet forward Molly. The step is a box. You go back while I go forward. We'll try it in place first. Follow my lead. No don't look at your feet!"

Sherlock pulled her into his arms, and she sucked in a breath. He shook her shoulders and she almost swooned, leaning back.

"Good!" he cried before swinging her in an arc around him. She followed in a daze, her eyes on his face as he whirled her around the floor. She felt dizzy, flushed. She didn't even know what her feet did. She only noticed the way his hands rested on her back. The gentle pressure as he pulled her closer to him swinging her around like he swung the hem of his coat. He whirled faster and faster as the music played so that she could hardly catch her breath. Then he grabbed her hand and stood straight twirling her around in a circle before pulling her to his chest and lowering her into a dip.

She looked into his eyes. His face was less than a foot away from her own. He was completely supporting her now, holding her firmly in his arms.

She heard clapping, and slowly she found herself back on her feet. John was smiling at them.

"Looks like she's a natural, Sherlock."

"Yes, well..." Sherlock said. "I think we should try this again at least once more before the ball. What do you think Molly?"

"Why I..." suddenly she had lost the ability to speak.

"Good, good," he said breathing heavily as he turned away to put up the record.

"So, should we go by the yard?" John said. "Lestrade must be wondering about the case by now."

Sherlock nodded and John walked out of the room pulling out his phone. Molly stood in shock.

"I feel like Cinderella," she said.

Sherlock turned back from where he was reaching for this coat. "Why would you feel that way? I am no prince. If anything I am the Cinderella that you are taking to the ball. Although, considering how we witnessed at Barts that you are someone who comes to help those in need. You could be considered some sort of hero. Perhaps you are Zorro! Yes, you can be Zorro!"

"Sherlock! How do you know about Zorro?"

"I know many stories about those who act like pirates. Shall you be Zorro then, and I a stiff aristocrat in need of robbing?"

"If so, then we will need to dance the tango instead."

"The tango? Good thought, Molly," Sherlock said. "But there's no time now. Perhaps tomorrow."

"Perhaps tomorrow," Molly said with a sigh as she followed him out and down the stairs.


	28. Tango and Legends

Packing went quickly once she got home. The memory of the dancing and the expectation of more, plus the relief of checking out things at work made her less concerned about where things went, and more concerned with getting it packed away quickly so that she could check out the new flat on Baker street.

She had always liked the location, but the prospect of being closer to work and Sherlock couldn't be discounted. Luckily work had conspired to give her an extended vacation right at the time that she got to play Cinderella... no, Zorro! Coming in unexpectedly to right the wrongs of undereducated Morgue assistants. She should get a cape.

Molly found a sturdy wooden writing table sitting by the mailboxes with a sign that said FREE on it. It had a bit of a burn scar on the leg, but nothing that paint wouldn't cure! And no bloodstains. She always checked. Occupational hazard.

She slept with Toby, pampering him with tuna and letting him lay on her pillow and half of her face, although she usually didn't. He would be upset enough when the movers came.

She called Mrs Hudson and asked if the place was ready to move into.

"Soon dear! I am working on it," Mrs Hudson said leaving her most of the morning to herself.

She set out for a walk around her neighborhood, finally letting herself realize what she didn't like about it. Yes, it was cheep, but the views were poor, and the walk led along relatively dirty streets with no parks and no neighborhood cafes like on Baker street.

She got a text from Sherlock, and then texted back to say that she would meet him at the dance studio. On the way there, she bought a red rose from a neighboring news stand. What better to have while dancing the tango?

It took her a while to recognize the location from the street as they had come before by taxi, but she could see the edge of the balcony when she looked up, and as she topped the stairs, she heard music playing.

When she looked in through the little window, at first she thought it was the dark-haired dance instructor, but a closer look revealed the leather shoes and long, slim figure of Sherlock in black trousers and a tight white shirt. He tapped his foot to the music of a sultry song and then jerked his shoulders in a rapid one two like a fifties rock star that made her fall away from the window to fan herself. What was she doing? They were alone this time. John Watson was nowhere in sight.

She pushed open the door, and he turned toward her.

"Ah, you brought a rose. How cliché."

"Oh, don't you use a rose in the tango?" Molly asked as Sherlock plucked it from her hands.

"Umm, no." He dropped it beside the door and walked out into the center of the dance floor. "So our first question will be classical ballroom or Argentine Tango. You're right. Argentine is the only sane option although I'm not sure what is expected at this ball. It can be a little risqué."

"Risqué? Us?"

"You're right. You will hardly be at the level to do anything too exceptional. Not without adding a slit to that dress of yours. So let's start with the basics. I want you to walk, Molly."

"Walk?"

"Yes, to the music."

Molly walked. Then she did it again with him counting as the music played its sultry rhythm. After only a few minutes, she was sweating. "This will be too hard. Can we just waltz?"

"No Molly, you are almost there. Now follow me. Go back when I lead."

Then Sherlock turned, and she was in his embrace. The man who had been so awkward about hugs had his chest almost touching hers. She looked up at him but he placed his hand on her head so that she was staring at his shoulder. "No Molly don't stare. Tango is about the heart, so without looks, without words, we must find new ways to communicate."

Sherlock began to walk then, and Molly walked backward. His hand was pressing against her lower back, and she could feel just how large it was. Each finger left its own distinct sensation against her skin. She took in a deep breath, and he turned her before walking forward again. She had never been so close to him for so long before. She had never danced with her eyes closed before, but she did now leaning into him and letting him walk her around the floor. She could feel the muscles in his back, the sheer musicality of him as he dissected the rhythm with his steps. She listened. He squeezed her hand, and she could feel his pulse, or hers, she couldn't tell which.

"You like to dance, don't you?" Molly said. He took a step back, pulling her with him, "Yes," he whispered.

"Why haven't you told anyone before?"

"Why haven't you? You like dancing as well."

"I guess, it's not like I get much chance to go to fancy dances," Molly said. "The best I can usually do are pub parties and weddings, if I can find a partner that is, which I usually can't."

"Why not?" Sherlock said swiveling her slightly in one direction and then back.

It was so unlike the waltz. She pressed close and just felt Sherlock's heat, and he let her. She realized that this was what had always hurt her about their relationship, the wall he always kept up between himself and her. Between himself and anyone really. She could see the wounded heart inside him that no one could touch. That was the attraction that she could not shake. The hurt she wanted to fix that couldn't be reached, but now...

Sherlock glided her around the floor as smoothly as if they were one person. The music stopped, and he paused for a second holding her close. She looked up, and his eyes were unfocused.

"Are you okay?" Molly asked.

He seemed to come back to himself then. He looked down stepping away from her.

"Yes, I'm fine," he said in a voice much quieter than he was used to using.

"No, really, are you okay? Because the things you've gone through in the last few months have been more than most go through in a lifetime, and you've been through so much more. I had this little thing with my flat and my job and it tore me apart, but things for you have been so much worse. Forgive me for not noticing your pain because I was busy with my own."

"Molly, I..."

"No. Don't do that Sherlock. Don't pull away and find some new excuse to cover, to excuse away your emotions like you always do. You told me you loved me. That means you will let me in. Let me see that pain and share it. Don't bury your heart. Trust your friends to guard it for you."

"I can't. I can't let you... all of you, get hurt. Moriarty..."

"James Moriarty is dead. I know, because I buried him. You can't use him as an excuse anymore to hold yourself back from the people who love you."

"My parents..."

"Your parents were cruel to lie to you for so long. They were wrong to let you stay so broken. Even when you were at your cruelest, we could see it, me and John, and Martha."

"See what?"

"Your broken heart."

"Then, what should I do? You always know, Molly. How can I reason, how can I do my work when the world has shifted beneath my feet?"

He looked down at her, and his eyes were as blue and open as she had ever seen them. She touched his cheek, filled with compassion for this man who had until now worked so hard to keep her a stranger.

"I don't know?" she said. "I guess, we can keep dancing."

Sherlock slowly smiled. Then he pulled her into a real hug before walking away to restart the record.

"Alright, now let me show you a few embellishments. We wouldn't want to look boring on the floor."

He looked happy. He was mending, and he had let her in. She should have known that music was the way to connect with him. Her compassion turned to frustration moments later as he drilled her mercilessly on her footwork, but when he did finally run out on some vital business or other, she was happy to have spent time with the man and not the legend.


	29. Moving in

Molly had just packed away the last of her dishes when the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Oh Molly, good morning. And how are you dear?"

"Martha! Yes, I'm fine, and you?"

"Well, I'm a bit creaky around the joints but I can't complain. How is the packing going?"

"I just sealed the last box. I only have to clean the refrigerator and the bathroom, and that shouldn't take too long."

"Good, good, I just called to say that the flat is ready for you to move into."

"That's wonderful!"

"The bedrooms are completely done, but there will still be some work to do in the kitchen and hallways. That won't be too much of a bother for you, I hope."

"I wouldn't think so. I can hardly wait."

"Why don't you come over this afternoon after you've finished packaging. We can have lunch here. It will be a nice change of pace. I don't often have company. Do you like fried chicken? I found a nice recipe I've been wanting to try."

"Thanks Martha, but I still have to find a moving company."

"Oh, I've already done all that. The removers should be coming by your flat at noon."

"You've called some? But...I can't let you do all that. You have done so much already."

"Nonsense dear, it's the least I could do. So leave all that, and we can have a nice time while someone else does all the heavy lifting."

"But, I should at least stay behind to clean the flat after they've gone."

"Whatever for dear? Aren't they going to tear it all down anyway? It isn't like you can't drop by tomorrow to check on things."

"I guess you're right," Molly said. "Do you like tomatoes? I have some that I need to use. I can pickle them, and we can eat them with the chicken if you'd want."

"That sounds lovely, dear. And don't forget to bring your cat with you. I'm sure that he would much rather spend the afternoon at my flat rather than being left among all that chaos. We can have a nice afternoon together, and you'll be moved in by evening."

"That sounds great, Martha. I'll see you soon. Good bye."

"Good bye, dear."

Molly pulled the food out of her cabinets and put it into bags. She packed the cat's food and water dishes. Then she searched around the flat for her cat. She caught him just as the movers arrived, stuffing him into his carrier and rushing to open the door.

She tossed the last of her toiletries into her purse and then left them to it. It was an awkward thing to move her cat, and food, and bags into Mrs Hudson's flat, but once there, it was very pleasant for her to just chat with the telly on while fixing a meal together. She hadn't really done this since her father died. Dad had been a bit hopeless in the kitchen, so they'd watch cooking shows together and try out the recipes. Her food had always turned out tasting better than his. They were some of her fondest memories.

Toby hid in his carrier for an hour before he finally hazarded out to hide behind the sofa. Sherlock came downstairs just as dinner was served and snatched a drumstick off of Martha's plate before sitting on the sofa. Toby crawled out from under it and rubbed his legs. He had always liked Sherlock best, the little traitor. Sherlock held out a bit of meat for him to lick.

Sherlock lept to his feet at the sound of the front door opening, returning a few moments later with Rosie in his arms.

"Why John, I didn't expect you today," Martha said.

John walked in with a bag slung over his shoulder. "Good afternoon Mrs Hudson, Molly. We'll be staying here for a few days if you don't mind. Greg has promised us access to some cold files, and I don't want to be going back and forth. You won't mind watching Rosie a bit tomorrow when we go out, will you?"

"Of course not," she said taking Rosie as Sherlock and John ran off upstairs. Mrs Hudson listened to the heavy sound of their footsteps and smiled saying, "I do so love having a full house."

She lowered Rosie to the ground then and went over to start the kettle. Molly looked over to find Rosie staring wide-eyed at Toby. He had peeked his head out from under the couch in order to investigate the small human.

"Play nice," Molly said to Toby who sniffed at the child only to jump back moments later when she clutched his tail. Molly started to go get the cat, but Martha stopped her with a hand, and before long Rosie was clutching him to her chest like she had her toy heart while Toby purred contentedly.

Then the movers arrived, and Martha took her next door to look at the neighboring flat. It was in much better repair than Sherlock's flat, no worn off paint on the stairs, no burn marks on the floor, all white walls and pale woods and high ceilings.

She walked upstairs to a living room that was bright and clean with stained glass accents in the doors, and an adorably comfortable looking bedroom with attached bath. Upstairs were another two bedrooms and a closet with attic space. It was amazing, and it looked amazingly expensive. Molly's hopes fell. There was no way that she would ever be able to afford the rent on this place. She realized that in her heart she had been hoping for the move to be permanent, but the more wonderful the place was, the more she knew it could never be so.

The movers passed up and down the stairs placing each box in the appropriate room. She chose the downstairs room for her bed putting her newly acquired writing desk in one of the two upstairs bedrooms to make a study. She hoped she would be staying a few months at least. Just being in the flat made her feel hopeful, like her life was full of possibilities.

Once the movers had gone, she put Toby back in the carrier and walked him around into the new flat. Mrs Hudson followed carrying some orange cake for her tea. She let Toby loose inside and closed the door standing on the landing of the stairs as she said goodnight to Martha Hudson who handed her the brass-colored key to her new flat.

"This is so good of Mrs Turner. You will thank her for me?" Molly said.

But Martha wasn't paying attention. She was running her hand along the wall of the hallway. They could hear through the wall the sound of someone beating on pots and pans. Perhaps Rosie had begun her music training.

"I think that I should get the workman to put a door in right here so I don't have to go all the way outside to get to my flat."

"That would be great, but... can you do that? Won't Mrs Turner mind?"

"Oh, it's not up to her anymore, dear. She refused to allow pets, so I bought her out."

"You what?"

"I bought her out. I own this house now, so you can stay as long as you like, although we will have to figure out a reasonable rent."

"But Martha... That must have cost a fortune. I can't permit you to..."

"Molly Hooper, I don't need your permission to do my business, and though it did cost a small fortune to buy this house, it is my fortune to spend as I like. I lived several awful months here alone when Sherlock was gone, and I've spent years before that around people I hate. The more friends I can have living near me, the happier I'll be. It is a luxury that I have been denied most of my life, and now that I have the money and the freedom to make it happen, I will."

There was a sound like a dozen pots collapsing to the floor.

"My goodness? What are they up to? I had better go check on them now. Goodnight, dear." Martha said as she slowly climbed down the stairs and out through the door leaving Molly alone in her fabulously huge new flat. Her mouth was still open in shock.

She turned and walked into the living room then to face her cat who had just pooped on her fabulously new wooden floor.


	30. The Hearing

Molly adjusted her collar. She tied a silk scarf around her neck, and then pulled it off, tossing it on the floor as she frowned into the bathroom mirror. She wanted to look professional, maybe even intimidating, but she just looked like herself. Why couldn't she look like the self-confident forensic scientist she wanted to be? Why couldn't she look as confident as Sherlock always did? She imagined herself swooshing into the hearing wearing a long coat and a her mother's knit scarf around her neck, pulling off her gloves and saying, "Enough of this nonsense, you idiots. Give me back my job now."

She smiled, then frowned again. _Who was she fooling? She didn't have that kind of charisma._ She bent down and picked up the scarf contemplating it before placing it on one of the glass bathroom shelves.

She heard a buzzing sound. She looked around for the source, walking out into the hallway to find what was making the noise. The buzzing came from a box on the wall. She realized that it was the doorbell when the front door opened and a blond-headed man pushed inside.

She looked down over the railing watching as John Watson smiled up at her from the entryway.

"Good Morning!" he said. "Sorry to come in unannounced, but Mrs Hudson told me that your hearing would be today, and I thought you would welcome a bit of support. How are you feeling?"

Molly sighed heavily.

"That bad, huh?" he said marching up the stairs and handing her a cup of coffee and croissant from Speedy's deli next door.

"Thanks," Molly said. "Come in."

She opened the door leading John into a room full of boxes. She didn't have a kitchen table yet since her old flat used to have a built-in kitchen counter, so she put the coffee on a side table, and they sat on the couch.

Molly looked at the croissant. Her stomach roiled.

"You should eat that, even if you don't feel hungry. You need energy to think."

"John. I don't think I can go through with it."

"Eating?"

"No, the hearing. I can't talk to people. There's a reason I chose morgue work instead of public speaking."

"But I've heard you give testimony in trials before."

"That was just stating facts. I wasn't talking about myself. Why didn't I just let Sherlock's brother, Mycroft handle it all?"

"Come now Molly. Have a little confidence in yourself. You did right not to trust your fate to someone else. If you pulled strings to get your job back, they wouldn't respect you."

"But I'll get flustered, and they'll realize that I'm just an imposter playing at forensics."

"You weren't playing when we saw you at the morgue the other day. You were very confidently teaching a collegue how to do his work properly. You know your job, Molly. But not only that, you are the best at doing your job, and you should tell them so. They've got a wrong idea of the kind of person you are, so go in there and tell them how wrong they are. You're not an imposter. You are necessary, so necessary that without you the work doesn't get done. They need you, but they've taken you for granted. This is an opportunity to redefine your relationship. You need to tell them who you are, and get them to give you the respect that you deserve."

Molly took a breath, and then she lifted the croissant to her lips and took a bite. It was crispy, and buttery, and good. She felt a little better already.

John watched her as she ate, a smile on his lips. "Are you ready now?"

Molly wiped the crumbs from her mouth and took a sip of coffee. "I think I am," she said rising to her feet and putting on her coat.

John picked a piece of lint off of her.

"There," he said. "Now you like the genius scientist that you are. Ah, the taxi's here!" he said as the doorbell buzzed again.

They walked out and down the stairs to find Martha in the hall waiting for them. "Oh Molly, love. Please forgive me for letting myself in, but I wanted to see you before you go."

She leaned over and pinned a metal brooch shaped like a chrysanthemum to Molly's blouse. "I hope you don't mind, but this is my lucky brooch. It was a gift that my best friend gave me at my wedding, and it's always given me comfort. I'd like you to wear it today, for luck."

"Thank you," Molly said giving her a hug before turning to hug John. "Thank you both."

They followed her outside waving as the taxi drove her away. She couldn't help but be touched by their concern. How long had it been since someone had brought her food in the morning, or seen her off as she left? Tom was the last to do such a thing and she had found it so touching, because it reminded her of her dad. He had used to be the one to see her off in the mornings. She blinked. Her eyes had begun to water. When had she become so sentimental? She hadn't thought of her dad in ages, and then these last few weeks she had missed him so much that it almost brought her to tears.

Once she arrived at the hospital, she went to her office and gathered some things that she would need, before going upstairs to wait. At nine o'clock she was shown into a conference room. There were four people in it: Her boss, his boss, someone from the medical board, and someone to take notes. She sat at the table accross from them as her boss called the meeting to order.

Molly could hear her pulse beating in her ears as he listed the charges against her. Then she took a breath to calm herself before giving her defense.

"I would like to thank you all for giving me this chance to defend myself. I think there has been some sort of misunderstanding. You have said that I gave body parts that were donated to this facility to civilians. That is untrue. If you look at this document, you will see that Sherlock Holmes has been granted research privileges by the executive director of this hospital. This document grants him free rein to the lab on the first floor and access to the morgue. You also can see that each of the body parts were signed out on the official inventory list. That is how you were able to account for the number of bodies present in the first place."

"But that is your signature. Not Mr Holmes."

"Correct. According to hospital policy, doctors, instructors, and official researchers may request body parts from the morgue technician in writing or verbally. All of the parts were checked out in the proper manner."

"But were they returned?"

"Dissections are not routinely returned to the morgue. It is the responsibility of the individual researcher to dispose of body parts in a safe manner."

"I see, then let us discuss the falsification of records. There is a death certificate for one Sherlock Holmes that has since been rescended. Is that not also your signature on the form?"

"Yes it is. I did make a false death certificate. I have here a signed statement by Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard saying that my actions were requested as part of the investigation of one James Moriarty, a man who infiltrated this very hospital pretending to work in the IT department. He also had agents in Scotland Yard itself. Not knowing how far his influence went, I did not ask permission beforehand. I made the decision to help, and it allowed us to finally clear the name of an innocent man. If helping save a man's life and livelihood means that I'll lose my job, well... I can't say that I didn't expect this to happen. But I made the choice that I found most ethical, and given the same circumstances, I would do it again. If that means that I need to find another place to work, then... so be it."

Her boss took the document, but his boss reached over the table pulling the document toward her with her fingertips. She read it carefully.

"If you wish, I can call the inspector and ask him to talk to you."

"No need," the woman said. "We will have it verified. Do you have anything else to say before we deliberate, Mrs Hooper?"

"No," she said sinking down into her seat. Then she thought better of it, rising to her feet and saying, "Well... actually, I do have something I want to say. I understand the need to make sure that a hospital follows proceedures. And I certainly know that our reputation is imporant to the funds that we receive and the donations we get to the medical school, but sometimes things can go too far. This investigation has severely disrupted the operation of this hospital. It has caused backlogs in the morgue, improper storage of bodies, and affected the wellbeing of the staff who have been overwhelmed by the level of distrust this investigation implies of their intentions and their very competence. Whatever happens to me, I can accept it, but you need to stop this witch hunt and let your very capable staff do their jobs. I think it is past time for all of us to get back to work."

She looked at the men and women on the other side of the table before lowering her eyes to her feet.

"Thank you Miss Hooper, we will inform you when we have made our decision you may go," her boss said. She bowed her head and then turned and left the room. She walked through the lobby and straight out of the hospital before leaning against the wall and putting her face in her hands. She noticed a shadow fall across her, and she looked up to see Sherlock.

"Did it not go well? Just whisper the words 'tax evasion' the next time you go in, and I'm sure they'll reconsider."

Molly laughed. "I won't engender good will by blackmailing my boss, Sherlock."

"What about his boss then. There was an intern. He was of age, but considering she was married at the time..."

"Sherlock!"

"Now that you're done, fancy a trip to Norwood? They're unearthing a body from the catacombs. Seventeenth century nobleman rumored to be the king's bastard. They're going to do a DNA analysis if they can get a good sample. Interested?"

"Sure. Why not?" she said letting the stress of the day fall away from her. Sherlock raised his hand then and flagged down a taxi. He jumped inside and she rushed to follow him.


	31. Loved ones

It was odd sharing the same taxi as Sherlock. It was odder still saying goodbye at the door and walking into different flats. Once inside Molly was alone. She climbed up the steps without having to push past busy neighbors. No strangers rushed by her averting their eyes. Here, she had a comfortable, fairly lavish home with good friends next door.

She had never used to know her neighbors. Not since she was a child. Back then, she would stare into the doors of the people in her building, talking to everyone, asking how they were until they all knew her. She used to be so outgoing and so curious. She was still curious, but somewhere, somewhen she had pulled away from other people thinking it more important to respect their privacy than to learn who they were.

London was big and crowded, and yet it could be so lonely. She had lived here all her life, but she hardly knew anyone, except the dead. She knew _them_ intimately. She knew their names and their occupations, their scars and what their last meal had been. She could tell their whole life from the way that they had treated their body, and most of the people she'd seen didn't seem to treat it that well. They smoked and drank too much. They cut themselves or had surgeons cut them to give them smoother faces or flatter bellies. Their backs were bent and their feet were flat from working day after day in jobs that didn't make them happy. Some had been in abusive relationships. She remembered one man with bruises on top of bruises, with a leg that showed the evidence of being broken twice. She had requested they investigate his death for fowl play. His wife had beat him often the neighbors had said, they'd heard sounds, seen him limp by, but they didn't want to get involved in someone's family domestic.

She had wondered, why he stayed? It would have been better for him to walk away and be alone rather than to be hurt like that. Why not try to escape? But then again, that is what he had done in the end, because the beatings hadn't been his ultimate cause of death. It was suicide. Rat poison dissolved in a bottle of apple juice. They had found the bottle in his bag. She'd suspected his wife of killing him, but she was out of town at the time, and he had the receipt in his wallet. He'd purchased both the juice and the poison that morning. Perhaps his plan had been to poison her? Instead he had drunk it himself while sitting on a bench in a public park watching the sunset. He convulsed and died there beside a pond. People must have seen him. They must have walked by guessing him asleep, until he was found the next morning by an old woman who had come by early to feed the ducks.

The wife came in to identify the body. Molly was so angry she couldn't speak, she lifted the sheet in silence while biting her lip. The wife was a burly blond woman, her hair pulled behind her head in a huge bun. The woman had frowned at the body, calling out his name and clutching his shoulders as she'd screamed, "Why? Why?"

Molly had wanted to say, ' _he'd did it to get away from you!_ ' Instead she had pulled off the sheet revealing the rest of his body. The marks were so obvious now his skin was pale from death. The woman had stared, glancing up and down his naked body, and Molly had felt a sense of triumph, until the woman had collapsed in tears, falling over the dead man's chest. She slid to the floor reaching up to touch him, running her fingers across his cold skin as tears flowed down her face. Molly had left the room unable to bear the intimacy of her grief.

That was when she'd learned that love was complicated. A body could tell you facts. It could tell you when and where things happened, but it couldn't tell emotions. She could speculate about a person's life, but it wasn't until she saw their families come to identify the body that she knew what others had felt about them.

She had watched them come, some stoic and stiff faced, some crying, one even fainting away at the sight. Most people were identified by their loved ones. Some people were identified by their bosses or their neighbors, because they had no one else. For the longest time, she had been certain that would be her fate.

She sat down on her couch in her beautiful new flat listening to the stomping feet of Sherlock and John returning home next door. She listened for the sound of Rosie crying, and Martha slowly walking up the stairs, and she knew that now she too had loved ones. She loved her neighbors, Martha and little Rosie, John and of course Sherlock. She loved them, and they loved her. Toby jumped on her lap butting her hand to be petted, and Molly was afraid that she might cry. Then Toby dug his claws into her arm and jumped off toward his food bowl. Molly laughed. She had been getting a bit too serious. She rose to her feet, washed her hands in the kitchen sink. Then she fed the cat.

She spent that evening taking things out of boxes and finding the perfect place to put them. From what Martha had said, this was her home now for as long as she wanted it. She expected to want to live here for a very long time.


	32. Preparations

"Another practice? With people? How did you arrange that?"

"I didn't arrange it, Molly. Those putting on the ball did. There will be traditional British and European dances played, and since most people didn't grow up learning such things, they are having a special instruction session. I brought you shoes to practice in since the ones you insist on wearing all of the time have no heel."

Sherlock passed her a box, and inside she found a pair of dance shoes, black with a strap and a two-inch heel. They were lovely. "Why Sherlock, you didn't need to..."

"Of course I did. You'd look ridiculous otherwise. Now, hurry and put on something nice. We don't want to be late to class. Dance instructors are notoriously strict about time. You'll need to wear a dress so that you can practice moving your skirt the right way."

"But Sherlock, I don't have any dresses that I can dance in."

"How about that red one you wore before? It had a nice spin to it. Hurry up and change, but don't bother with the makeup. There won't be anyone there to impress. The most important people will have private tutors. This session will be for the others, the assistants, the bodyguards, the secretaries, the wannabes..."

"Sherlock Holmes, are you calling me a wannabe?"

"Uh... no. It's just... I would have skipped it myself, but well, one needs other people to do group dances, so... needs must."

Molly sighed loudly, before rushing to the bedroom to find out where she had packed the red dress. She dug it out of the bottom of a box full of sheets, frowning at the wrinkles which she tried to loosen by hanging it in the bathroom as she showered. That only made it damp. She thought of borrowing an iron from Martha, but there was no time. For as soon as she walked out of her flat, Sherlock whisked her away to an impressive building with columns and marble-floored halls. Then they entered a vast room with a painted ceiling hung with crystal chandeliers.

People milled about the room in loose clothes, casual shirts and trousers. Sherlock's fitted suit and her red dress stood out among the crowd. Sherlock walked away to hang up his coat, and Molly went over to the corner of the room to set down her bag. She felt a bit out of place, as if she had shown up for a play, and then been forced to perform in it. She put down her bag, folding her coat, and placing it on top. Then she sat down on the floor trying not to look too conspicuous.

A tall dark-haired woman in a black shirt and green trousers walked over to her.

"Hello," she said smiling at Molly. "Did you come for the dancing, or are you just here to watch?"

"Um, for the dancing. I sort of was given an invitation, but I didn't expect all of this. I never even imagined that there were still things like balls and especially not classes for those attending balls. It seems like something from the Victorian era."

The woman put down her large bag, and lowered herself to sit beside Molly. "I was surprised too. Most days, I run an orphange. We've had people from the ballet over to lead waltzing classes before, you know for the children's cultural development, but I've never done anything like this. My name is Gina by the way."

"Molly Hooper," Molly said holding out a hand and shaking Gina's.

"Pleased to meet you Molly. So what brings you here? Were you dragged along with your boss like I was? The director plans to mingle with donors. I'm here because I'm the only one in the place who has taken a dance class before?"

"No, Sherlock's not my boss. And technically, I dragged him along to dance with me."

"Who?"

"Him," she said pointing over at Sherlock. He was conversing with a thin man dressed in black who was certainly the dance instructor.

"You came with that man beside Mr Chambers. My word! What is it you do for a living?"

"I work in a morgue."

"Really? So you're a doctor? I should have known that everyone here would be more impressive than me. I don't know how I'll face them all at the ball on Friday. I'll probably make a mess of it. Mr Chambers always frowns when I dance past him."

"So you know the instructor?"

"Of course. I've been to all of the other sessions."

"What other sessions?"

"There have been three other practices. This is the last. The ball is this week after all."

Molly looked up in shock, and saw Sherlock gesturing for her to come over.

"He's calling you," Gina said. "I suppose that I had better find my partner as well." She rose to her feet in one graceful motion that showed that she was well in command of her body. "It's been so nice meeting you, Molly," she said before walking off. Molly stood up much less gracefully, and walked over to Sherlock.

The instructor called them to order, and Molly spent the next two hours spinning, bowing, and touching hands in a blur that left her dizzy. She was trying hard to shove the moves quickly into her brain, cramming as she hadn't done since medical school. Sherlock danced it perfectly of course. It was as if he'd learned it at his mother's knee. Knowing him, he probably had.

By the end of the night, Molly was gasping. She limped over to the corner, sweating all over her fancy red dress. Gina passed her a bottle of water before pulling another one from her bag for herself.

"You look good out there," Gina said. "The two of you. You dance well together."

"Thank you", she said. Molly wanted to compliment Gina, but frankly, she hadn't been watching anyone else.

"Well, then I'll see you Friday. I won't feel quite so nervous now that I know at least two people there. Goodbye."

"See you soon," Molly said with a wave. Sherlock came over then exploding with impatience. He hadn't even broken a sweat. Apparently there was a new development in a case he was working on, so he hurried her outside and into a taxi. Molly tried to talk about the ball, but Sherlock ignored her. He spent the entire time in the taxi texting on his phone. When they arrived at Baker Street, Molly stepped out of the cab, and John climbed in it. Then it drove away.

Martha Hudson leaned out the door, calling her in. "Oh those boys! Always rushing about," she said leading Molly into her flat where the baby sat playing with the much loved and mangled heart toy. They ate dinner together, and then put Rosie to bed. Martha carried the baby monitor in her apron pocket as she walked down the stairs.

"Oh dear, I wish you didn't have to leave."

"I'm just next door."

"Well these steps are doing no good to my hip. Good night, dear. Sweet dreams."

"Good night, Martha," Molly said, going out and up to her flat. She was tired, but in a good way, and knowing that she would soon be at a ball dancing with Sherlock made her think that tonight she would indeed have sweet dreams.

* * *

Molly really began to appreciate her time off from work. She had never really taken vacations before, and spending time on herself felt so indulgent. On the other hand, there was no guarantee that this vacation wouldn't be permanent. She hadn't heard a thing about her appeal. She really ought to make a few queries at other hospitals.

Although her things had been moved, she lacked some needed items. First there were groceries to buy. Ms Hudson couldn't feed her every night. And she needed a shower curtain that fit, a kitchen table and a set of drapes for the windows. After spending most of the day looking (the shower curtain was all she could decide upon) she started home only to be diverted by a phone call.

Peter called from the morgue panicked that the temperature on the freezer was too high. It took while, but they found the fault. Then he asked if she could help him with a routine autopsy. It was night by the time she headed home, riding on the underground with a mixture of those going home and those going out for the evening. Her flat was starting to get messy before she had even had a chance to set it up properly. She knew she should clean, but after a light dinner she went to bed. The next morning, she woke and immediately sat up in her bed. It was Friday morning, the day of the ball.

Paolo called before she had even finished her breakfast. He and his partner wanted her to come in for her photo shoot. It was part of their agreement for the dress, and it would give him a chance to prepare her for the ball. Oscar was back from his travels, and he wanted to see if the dress that he bought had fit.

Molly felt excited as she approached the salon again. She was so fond of the place now, it was hard to believe that she had never been here before this month. Paolo snapped a picture of her as soon as she entered the door.

"What are you doing? You should have at least let me take off my jumper!" Molly cried.

"Oh no. We must have a record of the jumper, strawberries and all. I want everyone to see that it was my genius that transformed you, so I must have a record, otherwise no one will believe you are the same woman as the Goddess who will leave through those doors."

Molly smiled at Paolo who led her back into his rooms and brushed out her hair before passing her off to one of his stylists who washed and dried it. Molly only smiled when the woman tried to chat with her. Small talk never went that well for her. Her anecdotes were often conversation stoppers. Who could forget that time she'd tried to joke about poor Helen Louise.

Paulo returned as she was under a hair dryer, lifting it up and touching her hair before leading her back to his room. He stood behind her, rolling it up into curlers.

"I don't do this much myself anymore," Paolo said. "It was my favorite thing when I started, but when you get famous you become more of a manager than anything else."

"I don't want to take up your time if you have other things to do."

"Oh Molly dear, owning my own place means that I don't have to style hair unless I want to. This is my pleasure. You brightened my day when you first came into my salon. I knew that underneath that dowdy jumper was something amazing just dying to come out. And I was right. I usually am."

"The jumper isn't that bad," Molly muttered as Paolo spun her chair around before calling someone over to give her a manicure.

Some time later, she walked out of the dressing room in a dress that shown like crystal and flowed like water. Oscar clapped his hands together in appreciation before rushing forward to improve the fit with little tucks and tapes that she would have never had the nerve to do on her own. Then they stood her before a backdrop and took photographs. They had her stand straight while they took photo after photo. The dress casting rainbows on the ceiling and the walls. It was dazzling, and a bit overwhelming. How on earth did models do this all of the time?

It was afternoon by the time she was done. They packed up her dress and shoes and sent her home with a scarf over her head and strict instructions to eat and take a nap before tonight. She tried to nap, but she couldn't. Instead she sat in her bed reading a romance novel that she'd bought because of it's name. She had thought The Bodies of Guadalajara would be about something completely other than it was. The story was just getting interesting when her phone vibrated. She picked it up to find she'd got a text.

 **Get dressed and come over if convenient. Now if possible.**

 **SH**

Molly rolled her eyes, and got out of bed. It didn't take very long to get ready. She put on her makeup, shoes, and dress; then she took of the scarf and brushed her hair lightly to make it flow. She almost didn't recognize herself. This was different from the last time she had dressed herself up. She wasn't doing it to entice someone else. She wasn't even doing it for Sherlock. She was dressing for herself. Her childhood self would approve of that sentiment, although she might have wanted her to hide a sword under her cloak. She had been such a violent child.

When she arrived at the front door to 221, Martha open the door and exclaimed.

"Oh Molly! You look so beautiful! Just wait until you see Sherlock."

Molly walked up the stairs careful not to trip on her dress. When she walked into the flat, she was stunned by the vision of Sherlock Holmes in white tie. It's hard to know how long she stood there mouth open, because the sight of him took her breath away. He was dressed in a black coat with tails, and a vest of spotless white that matched the shirt and bowtie beneath. A gold chain hung from his waistcoat pocket in a perfect arc. She wondered if there was a pocket watch on the end.

"Molly, you look bloody amazing," John said giving her a light kiss just above her cheek so as not to smear her makeup. He was carrying Rosie who reached out to touch her dress before John pulled her away. There was another man in the room. He was carrying a camera.

"If the two of you would please stand there in front of the fireplace," the man said with a nod.

"Sherlock, what is all this about?" Molly asked.

"My brother insisted on this picture in exchange for our transportation and other favors."

"Another photograph? I swear if I have to take one more of these, I'm going to start charging for them. Why does your brother want our photograph anyway?"

"It is for his protection."

"Your brother wants our picture for his protection? How does that work?"

John started to laugh, but turned away at her gaze. Sherlock frowned.

"It protects him from our parents. He wants a picture of us to keep in his desk. When our parents next insist that he consider marrying or having grandchildren, he will pull out this photo and sic them on me instead. A loathsome bargain, but much more palatable than his suggestion that he film us dancing. My parents are quite dotty when it comes to dancing. They might invite us line dancing, heaven forbid. I would never live it down."

Just then Martha Hudson came up the stairs. "Wait! Don't take the picture yet!" she said going up to Molly and placing a diamond choker around her neck. It was five layers thick, and patterned like a braided cord. She handed Molly matching earrings and Molly stared at them for ten full seconds before putting them on.

"Why Martha, these are lovely."

"And that's why you should be wearing them. I don't have much of a need for these anymore, but when I was younger, I could have lit up the block with my jewels."

Molly turned and looked in the mirror. She had captured all of the eyes in the room. It was with an honest smile and a fairytale air that she turned back around and took Sherlock's arm. After another round of photographs including one snapped from John's phone, they were whisked off in one of Mycroft's black car's to attend the Ambassador's ball.

 _ **(Author's note: To see Sherlock's costume, look at Rozzychan dot tumblr dot com /image/169695347574)**_


	33. The Ambassador's Ball

The car pulled up at the same impressive building where they had had their practice, but today it was full of light. The door opened and Sherlock climbed out, turning back to help her out of the car. She put her palm in his and let him pull her to her feet. For a moment they just stood that way, face to face, staring at each other.

Sherlock in black tie was impressive. His hair which usually held those adorable curls was slicked back on his head making his cheekbones pop out amazingly far. His white shirt, tie and waistcoat were visible beneath his open Belstaff coat making him appear even taller than he was. A car turned a corner flashing them with their headlights and causing her dress to shimmer casting rainbows all over him. It transformed the common curb into someplace magical. She was enchanted.

A woman with dark hair climbed out of the passenger seat of the black car. Molly recognized her as the one who had taken her to see Mycroft many days before. She walked up to Molly and handed her a pair of long white gloves. Molly pulled them on. They were thicker than she would have expected them to be. They reached past her elbow and a third of the way up her upper arm. the woman helped her fasten them, stretching an elastic hoop over a button to hold them in place. They were the same shade as Sherlock's waistcoat. Sherlock lifted his arm, and Molly brushed back her dark velvet cape and twined her arm around his. Then Sherlock led her inside.

They walked down the marble-floored hallway, the sounds of footsteps and voices echoing around the large chamber as they approached the door to the ballroom. Sherlock handed his tickets to a man who pointed them into the chandelier strewn chamber where they had practiced before. Previously, it had been dim, only the center of the dance floor well lit. Now, it was bright. Every light was lit, including ones on the walls. The place glowed and sparkled. The painted scenes of cherubs on the ceiling were so clear that you could see the pink blush of their cheeks. It was like walking inside of a golden Fabergé egg.

The men were dressed in black and white. The women were awash in color: Blues and whites and reds, although no one else had her special shade of golden pink. Eyes turned to watch them as they entered. She stood straighter, both hands on Sherlock's forearm as he led her to a table where they took her coat and his.

Sherlock leaned over the table giving special instructions for the care of his coat. As he talked, Molly looked around, taking it all in. On one side of the room was a long table of refreshments awash with fruit, pastries, and ice sculptures in the punch bowls. On the other side was a bar. A number of people were enjoying the complementary drinks. Near the center, against the wall, a band with musicians dressed in red uniforms played music on a raised stage. The music was classical and strangely familiar to her. She felt something tickle her hair and glanced back to see Sherlock leaning down to whisper in her ear.

"Bach, Little fugue in G minor. It's just for mingling. They won't start dancing for a bit yet."

Sherlock raised his head and placed his hand on her waist as he guided her through the bejeweled people to find a place to stand near the dance floor. Then he excused himself and walked away. Molly took a deep breath to steady herself. Sherlock's touch, his attention, his politeness, it was something she wasn't used to. She liked it, a lot.

The people in the room were a mixture of old and young. The younger tended to be more casual in their dress. They stood in groups smiling and ignoring their elders who sat around the edges of the room as if on thrones.

The hall was long and narrow with a balcony that stretched all around the room above them. She had not noticed it during practice, perhaps because she had spent most of her time looking down at her feet. She remembered the painted ceiling though. It was high and ornate with blue sky and white clouds and little fat cherubs looking down, their bows drawn.

People were still arriving, flowing into the room in pairs. She watched a couple enter. The man was in black, indistinguishable from most of the other men here. The woman wore a blue off the shoulder dress. Her shoes glowed with a million rhinestones. She looked up and broke into a smile waving at Molly who suddenly recognized her as Gina, the girl that she had chatted with during practice. Gina's date frowned at her, stilling the arm that was waving, and leading her off toward the coat table. She smiled apologetically and walked away.

"Molly." She jumped, turning to find Sherlock at her shoulder. He held a tall glass in his hand. "Champagne?"

"Thank you," she said taking the glass from him. She took a sip. "Aren't you going to have one?"

"No. There is a case I'm working on. Lestrade promised to text if there are any developments." Sherlock said while patting his waistcoat pocket. Molly stared. Could it be that he had a phone attached to the chain on his waist?

"So, did you put off a case to come here with me tonight?" Molly asked awed.

"Not put off exactly. Just put aside for the time being. Besides, I'm waiting on some tests from Scotland yard. Once they verify the obvious they can get a warrant and the game will be on. It's nothing for you to worry about. I don't expect anything to happen before tomorrow morning so, it shouldn't impact our time here. Thirsty?"

Molly looked at the empty glass in her hand.

"I'll get you another. I know that you enjoyed that one."

"You think I'm a drunk, don't you?"

"I never said that." Sherlock said, his hand wrapping around the flute of her glass. Molly refused to let go.

"You didn't say it, but you were thinking it, weren't you?"

Sherlock slowly worked the glass out of her hand and put it on a nearby table without saying a word.

Just then the music stopped and someone tapped on the microphone.

"Hello everyone, and welcome to the Ambassador's Ball. If you will all give us your attention, the Countess Annibal Jane, twenty first countess of Lleida will lead us in the waltz."

They all turned toward the dance floor, and watched as an older woman in a fabulous champagne colored silk gown and a jeweled necklace with stones that were over an inch long, walked out onto the floor. She wore a beautiful jeweled tiara with a large golden diamond in the center carved like a teardrop. The edges of her headdress disappeared into a confection of artfully-styled blond hair. The man across from her wore a large red sash across his coat. He took her in his arms and the waltz began.

"And now you finally get a glimpse of the infamous diamond tiara."

"She's the one whose tiara was stolen?"

"Indeed. The very person who invited us to this ball."

"We should thank her." They turned their heads to watch as the woman danced past them.

"Now is not the moment, but it looks as if...yes. Others are joining the dance now. We should be able to catch up with her if we try. Would you care to waltz with me, Miss Hooper?"

Molly blushed. "Certainly. I would like that very much, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock took her hand. Then someone bumped into her back. Molly turned around to see a man in black tie turning to face her.

"Hey, watch where you're going! Didn't you see I was..." The man's frown turned to a wry smirk when saw her partner. He looked him up and down and said, "Why if it isn't Sherlock Holmes! I wouldn't have expected to see you here."

Sherlock stiffened. He dropped her hand. "Sebastian Wilkes. What are you doing at a ball? I didn't think you knew how to dance."

"Oh, I'm not here to dance, old boy. I'm here to mingle. Big money like these dances, as do new money, and one must go where the money is to keep the pounds flowing if you know what I mean? But then, you never did understand finance did you?"

Sherlock stood stiffly his hands behind his back. He looked uncomfortable.

"Sherlock?" Molly said as she looked between the two of them wondering what was wrong. Sherlock pasted on a false smile on his face. "I'm sorry, I haven't introduced you. Molly Hooper, this is Sebastian Wilkes, and old schoolmate. Sebastian, this is Miss Molly Hooper, my _date_."

He said the last bit pointedly as if to emphasize that he had not come alone. The man smirked. "Date?" He looked about ready to laugh. "How did that happen? I don't envy you getting saddled with this one. I doubt he ever pulled his face away from his books and experiments long enough to learn how to dance. But I suppose these days he's been spending all his time on that Private Investigator thing he does."

"Consulting detective."

"Right. I read about you in the papers. Did you ever clear up that Richard Brooke thing? Everything went quiet after that presumed death thing. Spend some time in prison did you?"

Molly looked up to find that the waltz was over. The countess had left the floor while the man had them distracted. The chords began announcing the folk dance that Molly had sweated so hard to learn, so she grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him toward the dance floor. "If you will excuse us, Mr Wilkes. My partner and I are expected."

She pulled Sherlock out of the crowd and into position. The other dancers filtered onto the floor to stand beside them. She watched as Gina took her place. She smiled at Molly and then turned back to her partner. Sherlock was still frowning, his back stiff.

Molly glared up at him and said, "Sherlock, let's show that bastard how this dance is done."

Sherlock looked into her eyes, a smirk slowly stealing across his face. The music began and he bowed to her. Then he took her hand.

Molly put all her concentration into the dance. She curtseyed and skipped and turned on the beat. All of this was made easier by her anger at Wilkes, and the sight of Sherlock at her side. He was perfectly in time, each step matching hers. Her focus narrowed and everything else fell away as she stepped and turned and finally took his hand again.

After a while, it felt less like she was dancing the steps, and more like they were dancing her. She spun around Sherlock who gracefully matched her moves, and Molly wondered how she could have known Sherlock for so long, and never known that he could dance so well. There was so much about the man that was a mystery. So much that she had never bothered to learn.

Sherlock wasn't the kind of person who liked to chat about himself. He could go on for hours, talking about the minutia of decomposition, explaining the results of his experiments, most of which he never bothered to publish. He could go on and on, if he bothered to talk at all.

Molly had spent long hours with him that brief time that he had hidden out in her flat. But despite their time together, neither of them had really talked about themselves at all. At the time, it had seemed unimportant.

Even now she had only heard hints about his life: A traumatic childhood with a dangerous sister and a domineering brother. Parents who seemed both concerned and neglectful. Years spent with schoolmates like Sebastian Wilkes. Compared to Sherlock, her life had been a beautiful fairy tale.

The final strains of the music played, and Sherlock bowed to her. Then the room was filled with applause. Gina rushed over and squeezed her hand. "My God, Molly! You two were just beautiful. I was just trying to keep from tripping over my own feet, but you were perfect. Even Mr Chambers approved."

She turned her head in the direction that Gina had nodded and saw the instructor, immaculate in white tie with a gold pin upon his breast. He bowed to her, and she nodded back.

"I've never got that much praise from him on the best of days. And I must say that you look amazing. That dress is lovely. It makes me feel underdressed. I never got the memo about the gloves. I wouldn't even know where to buy such a thing. It's not like I go to formal dinners that often, or ever. But I am so glad to get that dance out of the way. The others are easy in comparison. Oh no. My boss is looking this way. I better go." She squeezed Molly's arm and rushed off across the floor leaving Molly to search around the room for Sherlock.

She saw him next to a large glass door that looked out onto a courtyard. He pushed open the door and walked out. She walked across the room and followed him out onto the patio.


	34. Fairy Lights

Molly looked through the window watching as Sherlock walked away. They were starting another dance, but no one but Sherlock held any interest to her now. She opened the door and followed him out into the chill of evening.

The door closed behind her, shutting out the sound of the music. They were in a walled courtyard, grey stone tiles with a fountain in the center. All of the trees around them were bright with white fairy lights. They were alone. No one else was willing to brave the cold, but in her long gloves, Molly didn't seem to feel it. It wasn't that much different from standing in the morgue freezer.

The air was still and fairly quiet despite the party inside. Sherlock walked to the far side of the fountain and patted his pockets. Then he cried out...

"Bugger! I left my cigarettes in my coat pocket."

"Sherlock," Molly said walking over to stand beside him. He turned toward her looking down into her eyes. An errant curl just above his ear struggled to escape the gel that held his hair plastered to his head.

Molly looked up at him amazed. He had done this for her. Rented a tuxedo, or bought one. The gold chain, the waist coat, the tie and was that possibly a bit of dark liner on the edge of his eye. When did he learn to dress like this? Where did he learn to tango? She wanted to know more about Sherlock. She wanted him to tell her everything, so she asked.

"Sherlock, you dance so well. Did you take lessons?"

"Obviously."

"But... can you tell me a little bit about it? You never talk about yourself, and I want to know... please."

At first she thought that he would refuse, then he raised an arm motioning for her to sit on the edge of the fountain. She did, and he sat close beside her. The stones were cold, but he sat near enough that she could feel warmth radiating off of him. She turned toward him. His hand was resting on his knee, as was hers. She thought of taking it in her own, but then she blushed, dropping her chin to her chest so that he wouldn't see. She need not have bothered. He was looking out over the courtyard, lost in thought.

"I started dance lessons at the age of three. I was rambunctious, too energetic for my family. They thought that dance lessons would be a way to burn off some of my excess energy. It didn't stop me though. Father says that I was always moving, any time that I wasn't asleep. That is until Eurus changed everything. After that, I stayed at home, laid about doing nothing. I'm told that I didn't talk for over a year. I don't remember any of that, but I do remember the dancing. I kept going to lessons. It was one of the few things I didn't refuse to do. At that time, I was...broken. I wouldn't go to school. I hardly interacted with others at all, so little of what anyone did reached me, but on the dance floor, I almost was able to act normally. Even when I refused to talk, I still played violin, and I still went to my dance lessons.

"When I grew older, I repressed the memory of Eurus and seemed to recover a bit. I continued dancing into my teens, even after the other boys dropped out. Before long, I was the only boy left in my class. I was moved into the advance classes, less because of my skills than because the older female dancers needed someone to partner with and an early growth spurt made me tall enough for them. I had the advantage of being around very dedicated people. I learned a great deal in those years, a great deal about a great many things, not just dancing."

He paused in his story pressing his fingertips together as he stared at them. Molly nudged his knee with hers as she asked, "So what happened? When did you stop dancing."

"When I was sixteen. That's when I found another hobby that I liked better."

"What? Detective work?"

"Drugs. I missed several classes, and then once, I showed up high, but only once. I've had to deal with the disapproval of Mycroft and my parents, but none of it compares to the disappointment of my dance teacher. I've gone out of my way to help dancers ever since in order to make it up to her, however indirectly. Stupid I know."

"It's not stupid, Sherlock. It's very kind. You are kind. Hasn't anyone ever told you that. You've changed, especially in the last few years. You used to be rude and abrasive in order to keep other people away, but lately... that woman with the father who posed as her online boyfriend. You were angry _for_ her. You had compassion. I think you have always felt it, even if you don't show it. You go out of your way to help people. These days, you let yourself care. You have grown. You've become a compassionate man as well as a brilliant man. You are one of the best persons that I have ever known."

Sherlock turned to look at her then. His eyes sparkled blue with the glow of a thousand fairy lights. The edges of his lips turned up in a slight smile, and his face transformed into something warm and soft.

"And you've been there for me. You risked your job and your life to help me. You had faith when others doubted. You were always there when I needed you. Thank you, Molly Hooper, thank you for everything."

Sherlock reached out and put his hand over hers, both of them resting on her lap, then he leaned over and kissed her softly on her forehead.

The lights were sparkling, and the sound of music wafted through the air. Her hand was in the hand of a man she loved, and Molly's heart swelled. She remembered Eurus' voice saying, ' _You can get what you want._ ' Right now, all that she wanted was Sherlock.

Sherlock's nose was touching her forehead. She tilted her head back, her lips slightly parting as she reached up toward his face. She closed her eyes as her lips brushed across his skin only to open them again as she realised that instead of her lips meeting his, they had grazed the bottom of his chin as he turned away looking off into the distance.

He wasn't looking at her. He hadn't even noticed that she had tried to kiss him. He squeezed her gloved hand, and then released it, before rising to his feet and walking away around the fountain.

Molly's breathing became heavy and her heart beat quickly in her chest. She clenched her hands on her lap as water pooled in her eyes. _'He should have kissed me then. The moment was perfect. I wanted to kiss him. Didn't he want me back? Has he rejected me? He hadn't even noticed that I was trying to kiss him. Why not? Was he distracted? Doesn't he love me? He acknowledged my compliment with a kiss on the forehead. It was a sign of affection, fondness. He doesn't kiss anyone else like that, except for Mrs Hudson. Fondness. Is that all he felt? But he said he loved me!'_ A tear fell on the back of her glove. The wet spot was soon joined by another and another.

She closed her eyes, replaying the scene in her head. Her lips reaching up to touch his. His chin passing by as he looked away. The way his hand squeezed hers, fondly. This place with the lights and the music, where he had told her of his past, it was the most perfect time for a kiss that she had ever seen. And yet, he hadn't thought of it. He hadn't felt her passion, her desire for him. He hadn't noticed the way that she had burned for him, because he didn't burn for her.

She remembered Jim, not even bothering to threaten her life because he didn't count her as one of Sherlock's friends, because he didn't believe Sherlock cared for her at all. She remembered Tom's face, how devastated he'd looked when she'd said she loved Sherlock more than him. Did her face look like that now?

Sherlock was on the other side of the fountain. Any minute now he would turn back, wondering where she was. She didn't want him to see her, to see how much he'd disappointed her, to see her falling apart.

"Molly?" he called.

She rose to her feet brushing the tears away from her cheek. She sniffled, then she smiled wiping her other cheek before walking around the fountain to meet him.

"Molly, are you okay? Your eyes are red."

"It's the cold. It always causes my allergies to flare up."

"Then let's go back inside. I think they're about to start the tango. Shall we?"

"Yes, of course."

Molly took Sherlock's hand and let him lead her inside and back to the dance floor.


	35. Molly's Tango

Sherlock escorted Molly back inside the ballroom and closed the door. It was only once she was inside, that she truly felt the cold, her arms filling with goose bumps as the first strains of the tango began. With her eyes watering, the room became a swirl of sound and color. Sherlock turned to her and pulled her close. She was suddenly glad that the dance didn't require her to look in his eyes. She didn't want him to see her, to have him deduce what she had wanted. She didn't want to see his eyes full of compassion. She didn't want Sherlock's pity.

The floor was clearing. Fewer couples seemed willing to dance the tango. She took a shuddering breath, trying to hide her choked up throat and followed as Sherlock wrapped his right arm loosely around her waist and pulled her to the center of the room. His left hand grabbed hers, lifting it up to the level of her head as he led her backwards across the floor. His other hand rested softly on her waist. She closed her eyes, focusing on the way that he squeezed her hand, the way that he leaned into her pulling her close, and something about it all started to make her feel...angry.

How could he hold her like this, make her feel special when he had no intention of ever wanting her? He didn't touch other people the way that he was touching her now. In fact, she had never seen Sherlock dance with anyone but her. How could he be so indifferent to her, so cold, so callous?

She remembered the times that he had smiled at her in the lab in order to get her to show him a body or allow him some other indulgence that he had no right to. She had known that he was manipulating her, but she gave him what he'd wanted anyway. Heat rushed back to her body as anger and resentment filled her. How could he mentally hold her away from him when physically they were so very close? Right now, he was only inches away.

He held her affectionately. His hand barely touching her back as he cupped her sweetly, kindly, fondly. That was never what she'd wanted from him. It also wasn't the way the tango should be danced.

Molly stepped forward pushing her chest right up against Sherlock's. The tango was a dance of passion. Just because he didn't feel passion toward her, it didn't mean that she couldn't show him her passion now she had her hands on him.

She lifted her knee so that it rubbed up against the side of his leg. The tango giving her the courage to say with her body what she wanted of him without words. She walked around, and he turned to face her, spinning on one foot. Her hand rubbed along the length of his hip as he followed her around in a circle. She removed her hand and reached down pulling on her dress as she stretched out her leg slowly to reveal her ankle. She lifted her foot exposing the length of her calf before wrapping her leg around his.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and his eye twinkled as he pulled her up against him, leaning to the side and dragging her after him. He stood straighter then smiling from one side of his mouth. Molly frowned back to show him that this was no game. He wrapped his arm firmly around her and lowered her into a dip. Then he placed his hand on her exposed leg sliding the dress up so that her bare leg was exposed almost to the point of her hip before he lifted her to her feet.

He walked her backwards again, and then paused as she stepped over his leg to walk around him. He turned to face her, grabbing her waist and spinning her slowly on one foot as he completed a circle around her. Molly dared herself to be more forward, reaching to stroke down the length of his back to where the tails of his coat covered his curving flesh as her knee slid into the space between his legs.

She heard him laugh, a short low cough as he countered by stroking her leg in a way that pulled up the edge of her dress again, allowing her to wrap her leg around him. She stood on the ball of one foot, her leg wrapped around his knees, their bodies pressed against each other in a way that he would only allow on the dance floor.

Molly bared her teeth. It was as if she was battling with Sherlock trying to make him want her, and he answered back, pulling her against him and spinning her around in what she knew was more for him about the joy of the dance than his appreciation of her body. She pushed, and he spun, and they dueled until she realized that she couldn't win. She didn't want to force herself on him. Sherlock would feel what he would feel, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Sherlock stood tall, his arm tensed as he pulled her closer, his leg circling the floor in an artful flourish. Molly sighed. She was tired of wanting, of pushing, of hiding her feelings. She closed her eyes and felt her body lean against his. Then she exhaled through her teeth and let herself relax, falling backward, not caring if she hit the ground.

Sherlock caught her, his arms wrapping around her back keeping her from hitting the floor. Her hair escaped from her comb and fell down her back to touch the floor as she let her head hang back. She felt Sherlock rub against her scalp as his fingers reached into her hair, holding her firmly as he pulled her back up to her feet and against his chest. He squeezed her against his body, lifting her off of the floor before lowering her slowly to the ground.

She breathed in, opening her eyes and looking up into his bright blue ones, only then realizing that the music had stopped and all around them people were clapping. Sherlock gave her a small smile, grabbing her hand and whirling her out as he gave an elaborate bow. Then he led her off of the dance floor.

Molly felt a bit disoriented. She didn't know what to say to Sherlock, but she was spared from having to make conversation when Sherlock pulled his phone out of his waistcoat pocket. His eyes brightened and he turned to face her saying.

"They have a warrant, and John is at the door. Wonderful!"

He charged across the room snapping at the coat girl who had his coat ready for him. She helped him slip it on before passing him his scarf and gloves. He tied on his scarf and then pulled a hundred pound note out of his pocket, passing it to the woman before pulling on his gloves and heading for the door.

Molly followed in his wake, walking out into the hall to find John waiting on them there.

Sherlock smiled, his eyes crinkling as he looked down at him.

"Finally!" he said. "I thought we'd have to wait forever for that judge to get off his arse. Now we can finally find the evidence we need, if he hasn't destroyed it all while we've been waiting. Lestrade can meet us there. Is your cab still outside?"

"Yes, but... Sherlock, aren't you going to change first?"

"There's no time to waste on pleasantries, John. Needs must if the devil drives."

"What? Sherlock, what does that even mean?"

"It's not important. Now if you will excuse me, Molly, I have a case to solve."

"Of course," she muttered.

John shook his head, smiling. "Fine, but Scotland Yard doesn't give awards for best dressed."

"If they did, I would certainly win."

"Of course you would, that is if you can only keep your hair in order." John stood on his toes and reached up running his thumb across Sherlock's temple and smoothing flat the curl by his ear. Then he stepped back, motioning toward the door and bowing as he said, "Shall we?"

Sherlock winked back at him saying, "Of course, the game is on!" Then the two of them ran off out of the building like boys in a school yard.

Molly watched them go, amusement and envy waring for dominance in her chest. She turned away then and walked slowly back to the ballroom.


	36. After the ball

After Sherlock had gone, Molly walked back into the ballroom alone. For a while she just stood there, watching the people dressed in their finest, admiring the light cast by the jewels and the crystal chandeliers. She felt like she was outside it all, an observer of some strange but beautiful ritual of which she was not a part, so she was surprised when someone touched her arm.

The man was somewhat handsome with white hair and long nose. His tuxedo coat hung a little long at his back, and he had a red rose in his lapel.

"Hello. I was watching you. You dance beautifully by the way. And I was wondering if you would like to take a turn across the floor." he said with a quick glance up and down her body. He held out his hand and smiled.

Molly stared at the man. Then she glanced around the room. He was not the only man watching her. She noticed a number of eyes staring in her direction. She hadn't realized just how much interest her dance with Sherlock had generated. On the dance floor, she had only thought of Sherlock, but people all over had been watching, and now that Sherlock was gone, other partners seemed ready to line up to dance with her.

It appeared that she wasn't just an observer. She was one of the shining people. Hers was by far the most beautiful dress, and with her hair flowing down her back she must seem somewhat exotic to the stiff-backed old men who came to the ball to show off their braids and their medals. A waltz was just starting. She had missed watzing due to Wilke's interference. If she wanted to, she could have a different partner for every dance. Here was her chance to dance the night away as the belle of the ball. She imagined twirling round and round the dance floor, men falling over themselves to be with her. She could do it, but she didn't know any of these people, and she wasn't in the mood anymore. She excused herself and walked out and down the hall to go to the toilet.

She entered the lavatory and immediately went to wash her hands. Looking at herself in the mirror, she noticed how her hair was draped loosely around her face, one strand hanging down her back, and another curled up on her left shoulder. She looked around to see if anyone else might have some hair pins she could borrow, and she noticed Gina sitting on the couch near the door.

"Gina! I didn't see you there. Are you alright?"

Gina was sitting with her legs stretched out in front of her. She scowled. "No. I am not all right. I twisted my ankle."

Molly came over then and bent down. The ankle was red and starting to swell. "Oh my! Are you in much pain?"

"I'm okay. I just took pain medicine. I knew that coming here would be a disaster. I was so scared of being called out as an imposter at this ball with all these posh people, that I splurged on the blingiest looking shoes I could find, but the wicked little things turned on me."

"You should go home. You need to put ice on that as soon as you can."

"I want to, but Joseph isn't ready yet. Apparently now is prime time for finding donors, when everyone is a little bit tipsy and open to new ideas. He told me to wait."

"Nonsense. Just because he wants to hang around, that's no reason for you to suffer? You could be sitting here half the night. If you don't treat that soon, it will be that much worse for you tomorrow. Come on, Gina. I'll get you home." She reached out and helped Gina to her feet. Then she put her arm around her back and led her to the door.

"But the party...your date?" She objected.

"He's already gone, and I've had quite enough dancing for now. Come on. I have a car waiting."

"A car? You have one waiting? Are you sure you just work in a morgue?"

Molly smiled. Then she pulled open the door and helped Gina out.

* * *

A black car was indeed waiting when they went out to the curb. It whisked them away on the long journey to Gina's orphanage. She thanked Molly profusely for the ride, but when it was obvious that she could hardly walk on her own, Molly insisted on going inside with her.

The place was dark. The atrium lined with dark wood and hooks holding many small coats. They past through a window-lined hall into what looked like a dining room. Gina turned on the light, and then sat at the end of a long wooden table. A boy walked in, tall with round glasses and curly orange-hair that reached his shoulders. He saw them and rushed over.

"Miss Gina, are you hurt?"

"She's twisted her ankle," Molly said. "Can you get her some ice?"

"Yes," the boy said before rushing off into the kitchen.

"Thank you for getting me home," Gina said. "You don't have to stay."

"It's okay. I don't have anywhere else to be tonight. Do you live here in the orphanage?"

"Yes. I'm the house mother. They are all my children, until we can find them new families."

"It looks nice this place, with the lights on. I thought it would be larger and scarier. Like in that show, Oliver."

Gina laughed. "No, it's not quite that bad. We are just a little home, only forty-four beds. We're a private orphanage started by wealthy benefactors over one hundred years ago. We've been here quietly doing our job ever since."

The boy returned with the ice and she placed it around her swollen ankle. "Thank you, Walter," Gina said.

Suddenly a young brown-haired girl with one brown eye and one blue rushed into the room. "Miss Gina!" she cried rushing across to give the woman a hug. "You're home. Will you read to us?"

"Don't be selfish, Nut!" Walter said. "Miss Gina is hurt."

Gina smiled. "I suppose I can tell you just one story." She tried to rise to her feet, then cried out in pain.

Molly helped her back down to her seat. "You need to keep that ice on your ankle for at least another fifteen minutes. Why don't you let me go. I bet that I can think of a story or two to tell."

"You don't need to do that, Molly. They'll be fine. They should have been asleep hours ago anyway."

Molly looked down to find the girl tugging on her dress. "Wow! This is so beautiful. You look like an angel."

Molly smiled. "No one's ever said that to me before. That is, no one but my dad."

"You have a Dad?"

"I had one."

"I never did. What's it like?"

"Natalie, don't pester our guest like that. It's time to go to bed."

"But our story!"

"I can do it," Molly said. "I'm sure I can come up with a story to tell them, if it's okay with you."

Gina sighed. "Okay. Walter, show Miss Molly to the dorms."

The boy nodded and walked to the door. He turned back to see if Molly was following, and when he looked at her, his eyes grew as wide as saucers. Molly thought she must be a strange sight in her expensive dress with her hair tossed messily around her head. The little girl, Nut or Natalie, grabbed hold of her hand and pulled her down the hallway and into a long room filled with bunk beds. Children scattered as they entered, rushing back to their beds. Others sat up in bed peering over their blankets as they noticed a stranger in their midst.

"Hey everybody!" Natalie yelled. "Miss Gina brought Miss Molly here to tell us a story."

At first there was silence as dozens of young eyes turned her way. Then children piled out of beds running over to get a closer look at her. They crowded around reaching out to touch her dress and her hair. Walter pushed them away.

"Don't swamp her. She's only being nice since Miss Gina hurt her ankle."

"Miss Gina's hurt?" One thin dark-skinned girl said looking concerned.

"She'll be fine. She just needs some rest," Molly said. "She told me you needed a bed time story. I'll tell you one, but only if you all get back into bed."

"You heard her. Lights out!" Walter yelled as the children rushed back to their places. Natalie was the last to go. She touched Molly's dress before pulling her toward the edge of her bed, and climbing into the bottom bunk. Nut turned her eyes to stare at Molly, then Walter turned off the lights.

Natalie cried out, "We can't see her. I want to see her!"

"How about I sit by the window. If I open the curtains, you can see me in the street light. Is that okay?" Molly asked with a gentle touch to Natalie's wrist to calm her.

Natalie nodded, and Molly opened the drapes. Then she pulled a chair over to the window and sat down in Natalie's line of sight. Oh's and Ah's erupted around the room as the light caught her dress which cast rainbow dots across the ceiling that moved as she breathed. The children sighed with delight.

"Alright, not another word from you lot." Walter said. "Miss Molly, if you want to... please tell us a story." The boy sat down on the edge of a nearby bed, and in the darkness she couldn't be sure if he was blushing or not.

"Well," she said racking her mind for an appropriate story to tell. She remembered murders, and funny things found inside bodies, but she didn't think that any of that was appropriate. Then she remembered a story that she had written long ago when she was not much older than Natalie was now.

"Okay, how about I tell you the story of the great Warrior Amo Cera. Protector of women and savior of the innocent."


	37. The tale of Cindy and the Maiden Prince

The children lay in their beds. Molly could see the light glinting off of Natalie's eyes as she watched, her head on the pillow, her body still. In the quiet of the dormitory, Molly began her tale.

 _"Once upon a time, there was a great warrior named Amo Cera. She traveled the land with her famed sword, Justice, looking for wrongs to make right."_

"A female warrior? I thought all warriors were men?" A voice said in the darkness to her right.

"Quiet Eve!" Walter barked.

"No, It's alright." Molly said. "But you are wrong to think that only men can be warriors. _Amo Cera was a noted fighter skilled in the long sword and the broad sword. She was an ace shot with the bow and even used the boomerang on occasion. No one could stand before her. They called her the Maiden Prince._

 _"One night she saw a pretty girl sitting in the window of her house crying. So she asked the girl what was wrong, and the girl told her this story._

 _"The girl was named Cindy, and her mother was a famous beauty, but she died when Cindy was young. Afterwards, Cindy's father married a woman with two young daughters, and together they were a very happy family, but then her father died. Although Cindy was very sad, her stepsisters and stepmother tried their best to make her happy. Luckily the mother had some money set aside, so they continued to live comfortably, but the mother told the daughters that their best hope would be to marry, because in that land daughters could not inherit property. Cindy objected. She said that she didn't want to ever marry, so her kindly stepmother found her an apprenticeship with a dress maker, and Cindy swore that once she learned enough she would start her own business and support them all. So the four of them lived together happily for many years._

 _"One day, the prince of the land announced that he would hold a ball to choose a wife, and all unmarried girls must go. The mother and sisters were very protective of Cindy who was somewhat simple but very beautiful. They believed Cindy might be noticed by the prince who was an evil man known for his violent temper, so they hid her in the house when the heralds came._

 _"Even so, Cindy had heard about the ball while working at the dress shop and she declared that she wanted to go because everyone would be wearing their best dresses, and she would never get another chance to see such a variety of fine clothing again. They told her that she could not go saying that she was just a simple servant girl unsuited to mix with nobles. Cindy was shocked at their change in attitude and ran into the kitchen to darken her face and cry among the cinders. She did not know that they wouldn't let her go because they had heard of the prince's bad reputation and they wanted to protect her from harm._

 _"So on the promised day her mother and stepsisters left for the ball leaving Cindy behind, but Cindy wanted to see the finery so badly that she walked behind the carriage hoping to watch the fine ladies as they entered the gates. It was on her way to the castle that she passed beside a rival dressmaker's shop. The woman who ran the shop was once the most prosperous dressmaker in town, but ever since Cindy had started working for her rival, her customers had switched to her shop so that despite the suddenness of the ball, her most expensive dress had gone unsold. She was filled with spite from her loss of income so when she saw Cindy, she hatched an evil plan._

 _"She told Cindy that she would dress her for the ball, and give her a carriage to go if she wanted. Her plan was to get her married off to the prince. Then not only would everyone know that her dresses were best, but her competitor would lose her best worker. Cindy was overjoyed by the offer. She begged the dressmaker to help, and she did, combing and dressing her hair to match the extravagant dress, and giving her silk shoes embroidered all over with tiny glass beads to wear._

 _"Cindy was last of all of the girls to arrive at the ball. When she entered all eyes were on her, for as showy as the clothes were, she made the dress look beautiful and her shoes on the staircase sparkled like jewels. The prince came over to her at once and asked her to dance._

 _"They danced many times during the night, and Cindy was pleased for she was able to see everyone dressed in their finery, but then Cindy got tired and wanted to go home. She tried to leave the ball, but the prince wouldn't let her. He grabbed her arms, bruising her skin. He said that she was there for his pleasure, and that she would marry him. She said 'no', but he said that she had no choice because he was the prince. She pulled out of his grasp then, and ran away from him. She tripped on the stairs once, but she was able to get away. The prince could not catch her, but he found her glass slipper on the stairs._

 _"As soon as her sisters came home, Cindy confessed everything to them, and they admitted that they had only said harsh things to protect her. Afraid that the prince might find her, they cut up the dress and burned it in the fire, but when it came down to it, Cindy found herself unwilling to burn the glass slipper which was very fine. Cindy hid it in a tin which she buried in the ashes of the fireplace._

 _"But the prince could not be twarted so easily. He got his guards to go from house to house in their search for the girl. When they got to Cindy's house the mother had her hide upstairs. The chancellor insisted that guards search the house and they found Cindy. The mother insisted she was but a servant, but they did not listen having been led here by a tip from the spiteful dressmaker._

 _"They forced her sisters to try on the shoe. It didn't fit the first sister, though she tried her best to squeeze into the small shoe, wanting to protect her sister, Cindy. The second sister concealed scissors in her hand, and as she tried on the shoe, she discretely cut the cloth side of the shoe, stretching it until it fit her foot. Everyone was excited that the mystery lady had been found, but then the chancellor saw that the shoe had been cut and ordered the daughter seized while he attempted to repair it. He called for needle and thread, and since it was getting dark, he ordered the guards to light the fire so that he could see well enough to sew it closed._

 _"But while the guards were lighting the fire, they found the tin containing the other shoe. The chancellor then ordered the guards to bring Cindy forward, and they shoved the shoe on her foot which it fit perfectly. Then the chancellor had guards surround the house as he went back to town to inform the prince that his bride had been found._

 _"That night there was much crying as Cindy knew she would soon be wed to the violent prince, and her sister jailed when he arrived the next morning. Cindy had just opened the window to view her last sunrise as a maiden when Amo Cera had arrived._

 _"AmoCera heard Cindy's sad story and resolved to help her. She climbed through the window, and slipped into one of the girl's dresses, which was difficult because of her large muscles. Then she put a veil over her face as a disguise. When the prince came, the guards led her down from the room and the chancellor showed the paired shoes to the prince. Then he lifted the veil, and saw Amocera. He gasped, for in a way, she was even more beautiful than Cindy was._

 _"'You are not she,' he said, 'but you are a comely maiden. Come to my castle and I will give you riches and cloth of gold.' 'I don't need any of your baubles. I have ones of my own,' AmoCera said as she pulled out her daggers. One she held at the Prince's neck, and one to his breeches as she said. 'Leave these women in peace, or I will make you into a gelding.'_

 _"The guards all around drew their swords, but the prince laughed. He said that he was a rich and important man, and he could take anyone or anything that he wanted. Besides she was only a girl, and stood no chance against a prince. She laughed then saying that she was not the one with a knife to her throat, and that she WAS a prince having been adopted by the King of Andromeda. The prince said that if she was a prince, then they should meet each other on the field of war. So she challenged him to single combat, and he accepted._

 _"The next day with all the kingdom watching, they fought in the training grounds of the castle. The prince could gain no headway against Amo Cera with the sword, and so he shot a paralyzing dart in her arm. His plan was that she would be incapacitated, he would disarm her, and then claim her body as his prize, but even with only one arm, she was able to fight him off, and win the battle. She cut off the length of his hair and made him swear before all that he would never force himself on anyone ever again. Then she had him pay gold to Cindy's family and the families of every other woman he had violated in his long, evil, youth._

 _"With the money, Cindy started her own tailor shop and was wildly successful. Evil was vanquished, and Cindy and her family lived a long and prosperous life. The end."_

Molly looked over to find Natalie's eyes were closed. All around her she heard the sound of gentle breathing. She rose to her feet and tiptoed out of the room. Walter led her down the hall stopping when he noticed the light on in another room. Molly followed him into what appeared to be the nursery. There were four cribs inside, but only one baby was present. Gina stood on one foot with the baby held against her shoulder.

"Get me a bottle for him, won't you Walter?" Gina asked.

He nodded and ran off down the hall to the kitchen.

"Walter seems to be a good boy," Molly said looking back at him.

"He is. The best, but soon he'll have to leave us. When he comes of age next year they will turn him out with only 100 pounds and the clothes on his back."

"Surely, he can stay on, to help."

"Unfortunately no. We barely make enough to feed everyone as it is, not counting utilities. That's why the charity ball is so important. Ow!"

"Your foot," Molly said. "You shouldn't be walking yet." Molly pulled a chair over for Gina and then put out her hands to take the baby. Gina hesitated before handing the child over. Then she watched Molly's face as she looked at the child.

Molly was shocked for a moment when she saw his face, but she recovered quickly holding the child firmly in her arms. Gina stared for a moment and then lowered herself into her chair.

"He came to us six months ago," Gina said. "He was abandoned. He has a cleft lip, and he was malnourished. Babies usually get adopted quickly, but no one has been willing to take on little Jeremy. A shame, as he is the sweetest, most well-behaved baby that I have ever known."

Molly stared at the split in the center of his mouth that reached up to his nostrils exposing his gums and two tiny teeth. He looked up at her with soft brown eyes. Molly said, "But why would anyone abandon the child? There's an simple operation to repair a cleft lip. You can have that fixed in a day."

"Some people are superstitious, I guess. I can never understand why anyone would abandon an innocent child."

"Why haven't you got it fixed?"

"We had an operation scheduled, but he caught the flu and was very ill. We've only just got him back to a good weight to try again. He has trouble feeding sometimes."

Walter came in then with a warm bottle.

"Can I try?" Molly asked. When Gina nodded, she placed the bottle carefully in Jeremy's mouth. The baby sucked and chewed and reached out to her.

"Your dress! Gina cried as the baby pressed up against her.

"I don't mind," Molly said holding him.

Gina pulled a baby blanket off of a shelf and tossed it to Walter who draped it over Molly's shoulder. She lifted the baby then and repositioned it against her chest as he fed. He made soft noises and kneeded her breasts. He was smaller than Rosie. Walter pulled up a chair and Molly sat looking down as the tiny baby fed. Before long, he fell back asleep and Molly burped him before laying him down in the crib.

"So Molly, do you have children of your own? You seem experienced."

"No, I don't," she said petting Jeremy's soft hair. "But I do babysit quite a bit. You will tell me when Jeremy gets his operation won't you. I work at St. Bartholemew's Hospital. If you have it done there, I'll check up on him for you."

"That would be nice," Gina said staring at her. "You know we'd be happy if you came to visit again. Career day is coming up. You could talk about your work."

Molly frowned then remembering that her job was anything but secure. She stood straighter removing the blanket from her shoulder and placing it on the edge of the crib.

"Well, if you are fine, I think I'd better go home before the driver decides to leave me here. Good night, Gina."

"Good night, Molly. And thanks! Walter, show her out please."

The boy walked down the hall looking back at her often as he led her to the front door. She sighed with relief to find the car was still waiting for her. She waved goodbye to Walter and walked to the car, sliding in when the driver opened the door for her, only to realize that she wasn't alone when she looked into the face of Mycroft Holmes.


	38. The rounded edge

The car pulled away, and Molly turned her head to look back at the orphanage. She waved at Walter even though she knew that he couldn't see her through the mirrored windows. Then she turned her head back to face Mycroft who was sitting beside her and a lock of hair fell down into her face. She brushed it back.

"Do you happen to have a mirror?" she asked.

Mycroft Holmes leaned forward lifting a panel in the console in front of her to reveal a large mirror. Molly looked into it and was surprised to see a pretty young woman staring back at her. She hardly recognized herself as the mousy old thing that stared out of her bathroom mirror every morning. She cracked a smile only to hide it under a flurry of movement as she tried to get her unruly locks in order.

When she was done she took another moment to look at herself. She recognized her too thick eyebrows and her too thin lips, but she wasn't ugly. Had she always looked this way? Her faults had loomed so large in her own eyes that they had eclipsed all other factors, explained all of her failures. Looking at herself as she would someone else, she realized that she wasn't that bad looking. She pulled her comb out of her hair and let it fall down her back and around her face. It made her look younger.

She noticed then that Mycroft homes was watching her intently. She blushed, pushing the mirror back down to where it had been hidden before. Then she turned toward him.

"I didn't expect to see you here. I thought that I had left the car empty."

"You had, but I was passing, so I decided to pick you up myself."

"I hope you weren't waiting long."

"Not at all. I see that you have seen the children." He glanced up and down her body, "And at least one infant."

"How can you..."

"There's a spot of milk on your dress, just there."

"Of course, their is. I don't know why I was surprised. I know how you Holmes are about deductions. Then again, I must say that your sister was wrong about hers."

"She was? What did she say?"

"She promised that I would get what I truly wanted."

"And you don't believe that you have what you want?"

"Of course I don't."

"But...you have so many things. Things that even I don't have."

"I am an unemployed and single."

"You are free! to go where you will, to do what you want."

"I am alone."

"You aren't held back by responsibilities. You don't have a sister in prison to manage, a government to nursemaid. You have a career that is useful no matter where in the world you go, no matter what time and place you find yourself in. No major... bodily defects, a good personality, nothing to hold you back from whatever you want to do. Yes, I would say that you could have whatever you want."

"And what if the person I want doesn't want me?"

"It rather depends on what you mean by want, doesn't it? Sherlock isn't like other men. He is not free. Not in his mind. As a child, he wanted to be a pirate, to roam the world free of responsibility or want. But circumstances changed, and he became...I suppose you could say that he became crippled. Now he can hardly go a month without falling back on his crutches, drugs, cases, fantasy. Sherlock is broken and I fear that my actions have only made it worse. You were right about my jealousy, my resentment. I came to tell you that you had seen what I had not noticed in myself. Where Sherlock is concerned, you've always seem to see more clearly than I could what he was feeling. In this and other things, you are...exceptional."

"Exceptional?" Molly said with a smile. "What is that? A compliment."

"A well deserved one. I fear that I may have resented you when you supposed to tell me about my own brother. When you told me of myself! I resented your butting into my family business despite Sherlock's feelings for you. You were not family. And then when you suggested having my brother's child and becoming family, well... It was too far. You were forcing yourself into the domain that had always been mine alone. I was the one who made decisions about where this family would go and what it would do. And who were you? Just some morgue worker who felt that she knew more about the world than I did. I came by today to apologize because lately, I have come to understand what kind of woman you really are."

"And who am I?"

"The woman who kept my brother's secrets without anyone ever knowing, not even James Moriarty. You are efficient. Able to be inconspicuous, and yet you can also make an impression if you so desire. Insightful, intelligent. You are indeed an exceptional woman, Miss Hooper. In fact, you would make a perfect spy. Would you consider a change in occupation? You seem to be between jobs. If you are interested, I can assure you of an immediate placement."

Molly laughed, "A spy... I would never have thought of that."

"Neither would anyone else. That's the beauty."

"No. I don't think so. It isn't what I want."

"And what do you want, Miss Hooper?"

"I don't really know."

"If you don't know what you want, then how can you say that you don't have it yet?" Mycroft stared into her eyes, leaning toward her in his intensity. "Miss Hooper... Molly, I hope that you will excuse my sister her games. Neither Eurus, nor I have the ability to determine the future, despite what we like to pretend. Our lives are not determined for us. Each of us must make our future ourselves."

Mycroft looked down at his hands as he said, "I tried to shape my brother into the person I wanted him to be, but I failed. It's taken three decades for me to realize that he isn't clay to be molded into the shape of my desires. He has a right to chose how he will act and how he will feel, and as someone who loves him, I have to learn to appreciate the man that he is, and let him be."

Molly was surprised to see such emotion in Mycroft's features. He had never seemed a passionate man before, but she could almost glimpse behind his eyes how he guarded his love for his family. She could barely glimpse the rounded edge of his hidden heart.

Mycroft took a deep breath and then sat back against the beige leather seat, his everyday mask falling over his features as he said, "I see that we've arrived Miss Hooper. Always a pleasure to talk with you. Good evening."

The door swung open then, and Molly looked out on her own doorstep.

"Uh! Well. Thank you for the ride. Good night," she said climbing out of her seat. The driver helped her to her feet. She turned back to face Mycroft, and his blue eyes caught hers.

"Good Night," he said. Then the door was closed and in moments she was standing alone on Baker Street.


	39. The Invisible Man

When Molly entered her flat, the lights were on in the hall. She climbed the seventeen steps to the landing and found a hole in her wall big enough to step through. She looked in and saw 221B. Then she climbed inside stepping past cans of plaster stacked up against the wall. She walked down the stairs to 221A and knocked on Mrs Hudson's door.

Mrs Hudson was wearing a lavender robe and fluffy slippers with a turban wrap around her head. "Oh Molly dear, I didn't hear you come in! Where is Sherlock?"

"On a case. Did Sherlock knock a hole in the wall?"

"Oh no dear, that was me. Did I forget to tell you? I'm putting in a door so that I don't have to go outside when I want to visit you. It's just that with my hip, it's such a burden going up and down the stairs. I hope you don't mind."

"Oh no, I don't mind."

"There will be a door. Feel free to lock it if you want. Probably a good idea considering the kinds of people that Sherlock has round. But, it's just such a comfort to have you nearby, and this way you can visit whenever you feel like it. Do you want to come inside? Rosie's asleep, but I can put on the kettle. That usually doesn't wake her."

"No. Thank You, Martha. I've had quite a long night as it is. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Love," Mrs Hudson said before closing the door.

.

Molly climbed slowly back up the stairs. She started to step through the wall, but then she looked back over her shoulder at Sherlock's flat. The door to the living room was open. She looked into the darkened room. Then she turned back and walked across the threshold until she was standing just inside it. The light reflecting from her dress danced around the room alighting on the chair, the mantle, the fireplace, the carpet. It made the room look magical.

And it was, because that spot, there is where Sherlock had hugged her and offered her his child. There was where he had grabbed her hand. There is where she and Sherlock had stood like a real couple and taken a photo to show his parents. Molly touched her waist and the lights moved across the surfaces like sparks.

So much of Sherlock was in this flat. So much of who he is, and yet, there were still remnants of the explosion: Peeling wallpaper near the repainted ceiling. Black ash around the nasal bone of Sherlock's skull. They were like wounds. That made the room even more like him.

 _"Sherlock is broken,"_ Mycroft had said.

Is that really true?

She had always thought of Sherlock as someone who was completely sure of himself. Someone without doubts. Who always did what he wanted. Always full of confidence.

Then she remembered Sherlock sitting in that very chair, asking her to imagine what it felt like to have everything that you based your world on revealed to be a lie. He hadn't been confident then. He had seemed...fragile. He had wanted reassurance and comfort. But she hadn't heard him. At the time, she had been thinking only of herself.

A lone tear rolled down her cheek.

She turned then and fled back to her flat, tears streaming from her eyes. She unlocked her door, closing it behind her, tossed her purse on the table while stepping out of her shoes and let her new dress fall unregarded onto the floor as, dressed only in her stockings and slip with her hair flowing loosely behind, she ran into her bedroom and threw herself down on her bed clutching her pillow to her chest as she cried.

The dancing lights had reminded her of the story she had told the children. A version of Cinderella that she had written when she too was only a child. Back then, she had imagined herself as Amo Cera or at least the girl Cindy. But now...

She had tried to force Sherlock to want her, to marry her, to love her in the way that only she had wanted. She had listened to his heartfelt confessions and found them lacking because he wasn't loving her the way she expected him to?

She was crying because she suddenly realized that she was the villain of the story, the arrogant prince who mistook Cindy's joy in seeing everyone dressed in their finest for the love of him. In the tango, Sherlock had held her in his arms so gleefully. He had shown her his joy, and it had made her angry because she had wanted his passion instead. She clutched her stomach as if Amo Cera had already stabbed her with the icicle blade.

She had thought that he hadn't wanted her, but she hadn't wanted Sherlock. She wanted her image of Sherlock, a beautiful, dashing man who would sweep her off her feet. A man who would adore her, make love to her constantly, kiss her each morning and each night. She hadn't wanted Sherlock. She had wanted a dream.

The real Sherlock had given her a beautiful evening. He had stood right beside her, and yet she had failed to see him. The Sherlock she had imagined was a fantasy, a hero from a romance novel, not the man whom she had spent years working beside. She had been as misguided as John had been. As controlling as Mycroft had been. She had thought she could see him so well, but she had been blind.

But that wasn't always true. She had known him once, just before he went away. Then his heart had been out in the open. He had shown her who he really was. And she had fallen in love with him.

He'd said "I love you" over the phone and she had thought that he might be lying. She had thought that she was telling the truth, but was she? Who was she imagining when she said those words, the Sherlock who was, or the Sherlock she had wanted him to be?

Sherlock had become The invisible man. A man that no one could ever truly see. Or was it simply that no one chose to see him. She had seen him once and turned away.

Molly knew then that she couldn't take his offer of a child. She had wanted it as a way to get close to him. A way to tie him to her forever. When had her heart become so selfish? She rolled onto her back and placed a hand over her womb. Was it puberty when it all had changed? When her goals had been redefined to seeking a home and a family? When had she forgotten what true caring felt like?

When she was a child it had been just her and her father, playing together, caring for each other. She'd made a scarf for him, when he had lost the one mother had given him. Father had said that Love is not measured by how much you receive, but by how much you give. In all of the years she'd known him, how much had she really given Sherlock?

What would it have been like if she had met Sherlock back when she was a child? She imagined the curly-headed boy she'd seen in the photo album. She would meet him in the street perhaps, or on a beach during summer holidays. They would have played pirates together. She would rescue the kidnapped princesses, and he would steal the Sultan's treasure.

Molly laughed. She sat up smiling even as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. She would have loved to have met him then, back when he was carefree and happy. There has been so much pain in his life since then. More pain than a scarf or even a sweater could fix.

Molly heard the sound of a door slamming open. Then she heard voices. Sherlock and John had returned home. They sounded happy. They must have solved the case. Molly covered her face with her hands and turned away. She felt ugly and embarrassed for all she'd done. She didn't want to show her face.

Sherlock had said, _"A friend is someone you would die for."_

She threw herself down on the bed and put the pillow over her head.

 _"Someone you would live for."_

She could hear laughter filtering through the walls.

At the Ambassadors ball, she had been the prince. Could he ever forgive her? Could she forgive herself?

Something wet touched her hand. She lifted the edge of the pillow to see Toby standing on her bed licking her fingers. She pet his soft fur and cracked a sad smile. Then she listened to the sound of Sherlock and John's laughter through the walls until exhausted, she finally fell asleep.


	40. Home

Molly woke the next morning with a massive headache.

She levered herself out of bed and threw on her bathrobe. Her eyes felt puffy and dry. She walked into the kitchen, turned on the water and washed her face. Then she put her hand under the tap, got a palm full of water and took a drink. The muscles of her chest ached a bit, and her head hurt. Where did she put the pain medicine?

She searched through a few boxes, but all she found was a bag of cotton balls, and a half a pack of elastoplasts.

She heard the sound of someone talking so she opened the door. John's gentle voice was coming through the hole in the wall, so Molly crossed over into the hallway of 221B. She gave a light knock on the door frame, and John looked up from the door of the kitchen where he stood with a tea towel in his hand.

"Oh Molly, Good Morning!"

"Is it?" she groaned leaning her head against the wall. "I haven't noticed."

John smiled. "Someone looks like they had a rough night. How are you feeling?"

"Like someone is dancing on my head," she said. "Do you have some paracetamol?"

"Certainly. Keep an eye on Rosie while I go get my bag, will you?"

Molly nodded mutely and then shuffled inside and lowered herself down onto the couch while John ran up the stairs.

Rosie was sitting on the carpet in a pink dress with ruffles playing with the stuffed organs. She would pile them on top of each other until the pile became so big that it was unstable, then they would fall down, rolling across the floor and she would gather them together and do it again. Molly felt a bit like that big pile of jumbled organs herself. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. When she opened them again, John was walking into the kitchen with his bag. She climbed to her feet and stumbled after him.

John poured two pills into the cap of the medicine bottle and handed it to her with a glass of water. Molly downed the pills in one toss and handed the lid back to John. Then she lowered herself into a chair, pulling her robe closed. It was odd to be in half dressed in someone else's kitchen. She might have blushed if she could spare the energy. Her head was pounding.

"Too much to drink last night?" John asked her.

"I didn't think so. But then again, I don't remember drinking water at all. Where is Sherlock, is he still sleeping?"

"Sleeping? No. He's at Scotland Yard giving his testimony for the case."

"But, I thought that he hated paperwork. I wouldn't imagine him rushing out this early to testify for a case."

"Normally he wouldn't, but Lestrade took pictures of him last night in tie and tails and threatened to put them online with the caption - The Dapper Detective. He never did get over being called 'Boffin' all those years ago. He wasn't willing to risk getting another nickname."

Molly smiled. The gesture pulled at the skin on the side of her head and causing it to ache even more. She lifted her hand to her temple.

"Are you sure you're okay, Molly? Maybe you should lie down."

"Just let me sit still, please. I will be fine with a few more sips of water. I did a lot of crying last night, and I think I dried myself out."

"Crying? We shouldn't have left you behind at the ball. I'm sorry, but if it had been anything other than..."

"No, John. It wasn't that. It was something else entirely."

"You know that I'm here for you, if you need to talk."

"Then tell me John, am I an evil person?"

"Evil? No of course not Molly. What makes you think..."

"I talked to Mycroft last night."

"Well that explains the headache."

Molly laid her head on the table and closed her eyes.

"He told me that Sherlock was broken."

John laughed, "Sherlock _is_ broken. So am I. So are we all. The world has a way of inflicting damage on all of us."

"But I think that I may be causing the damage. By not listening to his needs, by asking for more than he can give."

"If you're evil for that, then so am I. I wanted him to give me my wife back. To turn back time so he never jumped. Sometimes our desires are unreasonable. That doesn't make us bad people."

"Doesn't it? I would have taken everything that I could from Sherlock, even his child."

"I thought he made you that offer."

"I can't accept it."

"Why not? Do you think he would be a bad father?"

"No, I think he'd be an excellent father. But... I wouldn't be doing it for him. Last night I realized that... somewhere, I got the idea that if I didn't have a husband and a family that I was a failure. I wanted Sherlock, but I wanted to make him into something I wanted. I didn't care what he thought. Do you know what I mean?"

John's lips twisted into a grimace. "Yeah. I think I do know what you mean."

"Then you understand. I wanted a family so much that I was willing to do almost anything to get it, even take advantage of my friend. Because... I don't want to go through my entire life alone. Do you know how it feels, to be lonely? To think that you will never have anyone for your whole life?"

"Yes, I do." John said looking down at his hands. When he started talking, his voice was quiet and gruff. "After Sherlock died… when I thought he was dead that is, I felt as if I had lost everything. Without him… I couldn't do the work. He was the genius. And this flat… I couldn't live here anymore. It was so filled with his… absence. I was alone then, and I felt like I'd always be alone after that. Sherlock had left me. He had rejected me. And I would have been there for him. I would have done anything." Molly sat up and looked at John. His eyes were shining.

"When he came back... I was overjoyed, of course, but I was also… angry. It just confirmed how much he didn't trust me. The way he'd left me behind. He didn't need me. Though I had needed him so much. That's when I realized that I need to be needed. Every place where I've felt at home has been a place where people needed me to protect them, to take care of them. Without it...I'm lost."

"And are you needed now?"

John looked over at his daughter and smiled. "Yes, I'm needed, and you are too. I think you underestimate how much Sherlock needs friends right now. He's found out that his memory, that he prizes so much is not as clear as he thinks it is. There is so much about this world that he doesn't trust. He needs people around that he can count on. People who love him. Have the child or not, I don't care, but don't give up on Sherlock. He needs us. He needs all of us."

Molly sighed. Her headache had finally gone away.

"And Rosie needs you. I may have finally taken my head out of my arse and noticed that I have a child to raise, but that doesn't mean that Rosie won't need her godmother anymore. With Mary gone, you're the woman she'll look up to. The person she'll ask for advice about boys or love or… whatever she won't want to say to her boring, old dad. I haven't said it before, but I need your help. Rosie and I already consider you part of the family."

Molly smiled. "Thank you John."

A sound on the stairs made them turn as Sherlock entered the flat. Molly looked up at him, and tried to really see him this time. He was neat, and outwardly confident, but his eyes searched their faces as if seeking for approval. He seemed surprised by the pair of smiles that greeted him.

"Why if it isn't the dapper detective himself!"

"Now John, I warned you about using that name. Good morning, Molly. Do you have a headache?"

"I'm better now. Thanks for asking."

Sherlock frowned. He leaned over Molly and sniffed. "What did Mycroft want with you last night?"

"How did you..."

"Oh Sherlock can smell his brother a mile away," John said.

"Quite literally in this case. You must still be wearing something from last night. His cologne is quite distinctive. Did he drive you home?"

"Yes."

"And what did he want?"

"He offered to make me a spy."

Both Sherlock and John stared at her. Then Sherlock said very seriously, "Don't."

"I said no."

"Good," Sherlock said. "He would not use you well."

In his eyes, Molly could see what she had been too blind to see before. Sherlock's concern for her, Sherlock's love. She reached out then and took his hand. He looked so worried. She squeezed his fingers, and his face softened. His emotions were so clear to her now that she had stopped projecting her's on him. He needed her.

She held on tightly to his hands trying to tell him that she would be there for him now, that she would care for him, because maybe that was what she had been missing all along. Maybe she just needed someone to care for. For so many years, she had felt like a balloon untethered. She held on tight, looking up into Sherlock's eyes. They were as blue as the sky.

Then Rosie cried. She was standing at the door of the kitchen upset that none of them had noticed her yet. Sherlock pulled away from Molly and scooped Rosie up from the floor. He carried her into the living room and then threw her up into the air."

"The ceiling!" Molly cried rising to her feet. "You'll hurt her."

"Shall we hang you from the horns, little Watson? What do you say? Perhaps we should do as Molly suggested and try to touch the ceiling?" Rosie giggled. Then Sherlock threw her up and caught her again.

Mrs Hudson entered then carrying a tray with several thin slices of cake on it.

"I thought I heard you come in. It does my heart good to see you all here. I bet you could do with a spot of tea and a slice of my homemade lemon cake."

"Mrs Hudson. You are a mind reader," Sherlock said, "And can you give us a few of the ginger nuts you bought yesterday? I saw the bag on your counter."

"Not your housekeeper."

"Of course you aren't," he said leaning over to kiss her cheek. "You're our home."

Rosie leaned over and reached for Martha who lifted the child into her arms. She smiled then with tears in her eyes. "Oh my dears, how can you all be so sweet and still cause me so much trouble?"

Molly smiled. She knew what she wanted at last. Seeing Rosie, seeing them all together, made it all come clear.

* * *

She got the call Monday morning that they wanted her to resume work. When they offered her old job back to her on the same terms, she had refused it demanding better hours and more pay. Today they had called to say that she'd been promoted to morgue director at almost twice the pay with weekends off and paid vacations!

Jeremy's operation had been a success, and Gina had been more than happy to start the paperwork to allow her to adopt him as her son. She couldn't wait to tell them all the good news.

When she'd told Sherlock she planned to adopt a child, he had hugged her without prompting telling her that every child needed love. It had melted her heart. Who would have thought that the way to win Sherlock's heart would be to give up all hope of winning it. Who would have guessed that it would take losing everything she thought she wanted, to get what she had never dream that she could have.

She put her key into the lock of 221, and entered. (Martha had insisted that she have both keys now that the two were one house.) Then she climbed the stairs excitedly, pausing in the doorway to look at them all. Less than a month ago she had thought she'd lost everything. Now she had a better job, a child on the way, and people to celebrate with. She was so happy, she thought she might burst.

Molly walked into the flat with a huge smile on her face, and she saw that smile reflected on the faces of the people she loved, that's when she knew that finally she was home.


	41. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

Molly sat before the monitor, her hands poised over the keyboard. She heard running feet on the other side of the door. There was a scream, and then laughter. Then she heard John's voice.

"Quiet kids. You know that this is Molly's writing time."

"Yes, Daddy! Jeremy and I were just playing with Gladstone."

The dog barked and Molly couldn't help smiling at their total inability to keep quiet.

"Why don't you put your shoes on and we can all go out for a walk."

"Yay!" they yelled, and loud footsteps pounded down the steps like a herd of small elephants.

"Quiet!" John said in a loud whisper.

Molly turned back to the screen. Just as the door pushed open and Sherlock came in bearing a steaming cup of coffee.

"Martha sent this up for you?" he said putting the cup in her hands. He leaned over her shoulder then to read. "So she finally made it to the kingdom of Linn. Was she able to free the people from the control of the oracle stone?"

"You can wait to read the finished draft just like everyone else?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and kept reading. She sipped at her tea, tilting her head to see the way the light reflected off of his eyes as he read. "So she discovered _no name'_ s secret name? What was it?"

"His name was _Fearless_."

"Fearless," Sherlock said standing tall again. "That's a good name. So when are you coming down? Martha's made stew."

"It won't be long. I just need to finish the ending."

"Alright. I'll tell her," Sherlock said walking out and closing the door carefully behind him. Molly turned back to the keyboard and she wrote…

" _I have freed you from the oppression of the seers,_

 _but I can not free you from the oppression of your own expectations._

 _There is no true prophesy._

 _Your lives are yours alone,_

 _determined only by your strength of will._

 _Be free, and don't let others tell you your limits._

 _For our future is not determined by the stars,_

 _but by ourselves."_

Then Molly smiled before she typed the final words.

 **The End**


End file.
